


True Face

by BookofLife



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, F/M, Heroism, Masks, Moral Dilemmas, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 22:15:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 71,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4683326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookofLife/pseuds/BookofLife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Returning to Starling, Oliver Queen faces himself in the black mask of the city’s already established vigilante. A person the city has already labelled with the moniker: Watchman. As they begin to move in sync, he starts to see just what the city really needs and how far it has gone to make the existence of two vigilante’s necessary.<br/>At the top of what he didn’t anticipate is a woman who makes the past five years, and all they entailed, suddenly make sense to him. A women with secrets of her own that may connect her to him in ways he'd never considered.<br/>In ways that make him... want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning, the Moment and the Start

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChronicOlicity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChronicOlicity/gifts), [thatmasquedgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatmasquedgirl/gifts), [seetheskyaboveus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seetheskyaboveus/gifts).



_ _

 

_Green against Black._

_Hood versus Mask._

_Head tilted, her voice was a burr behind the modulator. Behind the mask. “Green.”_

_Silent, the man in said green didn’t move; his face half covered and shadowed._

_It didn’t change anything. “You’re not leaving.”_

_The hood didn’t so much as twitch. “You can try to stop me.” The words were said in the same vein as a one would say ‘you won’t succeed’._

_“He speaks.”_

_And just as quickly, she shot forward to strike; but a green bow met quick fingers._

**The Beginning**

In each of us there lives a side that hides.

Figuratively, we all wear masks. We’re forced to. The faces we let other people see and the faces we keep to ourselves. Shrouded in dark, abandoned in the light. It doesn’t matter. And sometimes, when we’re brave enough, we let others see the real us.

Our true face.

But there are times, there are people whose real ‘self’ is so opposing to the face they share that they can’t possibly reveal even a glimpse of it to the world, to their family and friends.

It would scare them. Confuse them. Ultimately drive them off. They would feel betrayed. A skewed perspective to say the least. And a prime example of equitability in an unjust world.

Where the familiar becomes the unrecognizable. Then we learn that this hidden facet of our souls could only ever exist in a harsh world. By god, do we learn, that that world already exists. And that what is ‘acceptable’ is only measured in terms of a majority opinion.

There are some masks that don’t even know they are being worn. And there are masks that are misunderstood even by their owners. A disguise disguised: a manipulation.

But how do we tell which is the ‘real’?

 

* * *

 

 

**MIT, University Campus, 2007**

Felicity Smoak wasn’t a hopeless dreamer: she’d never allow herself to become one.

She knew that she was a mass of contradictions and she didn’t know just who or what she was. And she knew she was always running from something. Abandonment. The consequences of her intelligence. Being unwanted and unrequited. The fact that she fled her home at the earliest opportunity; running to an organised training facility north of Vegas proved this. She had been just 15 years old.

More than two years later, she ran towards her new homeland: MIT.

Now at plus 18, with a degree and the sweet promise of a Master’s under her belt in the next eighteen months, Felicity Smoak still didn’t know who she truly was. Her current face? A Goth girl with purple streaks in her currently black hair.

In her head and in her heart, she knew she’d alter again and again before finding her niche. Her place in the world. Maybe she’d never find it. But this was another phase, one she allowed herself to drown in. It got her a boyfriend who she loves dearly. It gave her a sense of direction, one she drew upon when her wisdom and knowledge of the world, which was lacking, came up too short and too tightly bound to allow her to move freely.

It helped her ignore the whispers in her head, the chains of the unfulfilled, the unacknowledged. The wasted and terrified.

She thinks she’s happy here. And she is. For now. At least until the storm come backs in, chasing her away to some new unknown.

Our ghosts follow us everywhere. She’s slowly becoming an expert.

 

* * *

 

 

**Starling City, Queen’s Dock 2007**

Sauntering down the long boardwalk towards the ‘Queen’s Gambit’, his father’s prized yacht, it took Oliver Queen a moment before he faltered. Standing at the end of the dock with his dad was his  _mom_.

_Shit._

Lips pressed together with a grimace, just  _knowing_  what her reaction would be to him being there, he watched the displeasure spread across her features. He knew she didn’t wanted his father to go just then and whatever they were discussing, neither adult was backing down.

He winced. The mental picture of the face he knows she’ll pull when she finds out that he’s on board to leaving too didn’t make it any better. He’d hoped to hop on deck without anyone but his father noticing with Sara sneaking in around the back, but it couldn’t be helped. He really needed this escape option.

You see, life could be so sweet.

If you were young, beyond rich and eligible, handsome, with a winning-charming smile and a modicum of cunning, the world could be your oyster. And Oliver was very much a ‘live for the moment kind of guy’: the type who takes part in all that feels good; _screw_ the consequences.

Despite knowing that he was all these incredible things and could be so much more, in time -because he was still young and had his whole life ahead of him - he also knew, deep down,  _way_  deep down, that he was God’s answer to _worthless_. It was a small voice in his head that he kept quiet and easily smothered with his egoism.

He had everything he could ever want but didn’t know what to do with  _any_  of it.

So, he played. And why not? Unlimited access to money, his trust fund and credit cards, per day, was enough to give every member of a working-class family angina. He squandered it, threw it into parties, at girls, four different colleges and frivolous, nefarious activities that could have, _should_ have, ended with his ass hauled into a jail cell (but didn’t, courtesy of his father’s endless pockets and a dirty criminal justice system).

Being the son of Robert Queen, the CEO of the multi-million-dollar conglomerate, Queen Enterprises, had its perks. He knew he was appealing; handsome, sexy even, at least according to the scores of women he’d wooed and royally screwed. He was an adept engineer, good with his hands -  _that’s what she said_  - a half decent pilot and navigator… so accompanying his father on a cruise seemed like the obvious choice right?

Except it wasn’t.

He was running. Away from  _Laurel_.

From Laurel and her ‘expectations’, the ones regarding their  _relationship_ , the ones outlining his commitments to the letter because that’s what couples  _in love_  did for one another. They made  _promises_ , a word that inevitably made his insides tense and writhe. They moved in with each other. They tried to build a life with the other.

_Hell to the no._

It scared him to death, but it was the feeling of being slowly trapped that had him running towards freedom. He wasn’t ready for any of that. He didn’t  _want_  it.

Of course not. Why would anyone want that kind of responsibility, that kind of weight? His recent scare with a girl he figured he’d never see again in this life, hit the nail home for him that settling down with Laurel Lance  _now_  was a bad idea. Full stop. It wasn’t the first time he’d fooled around since he’d shacked up with Laurel but there was a difference between harmless pleasure and BABY.

He wanted to play, to live, to have fun before his dutiful ascendance to the head of the family business. It’s what his father had in store for him: another decorative trapping. His father saw him becoming a greater businessman than Robert himself already was. How that could even be possible, was laughable to Oliver.

Laurel wanted to start all that  _yesterday_.

He was only 22; it seemed logical to him to want to go for a cruise to deflect responsibility. _I mean, why not, right?_ What was the point in being responsible?

So, seeing Laurel’s younger sister Sara, and her obvious infatuation in him, just forced the nail home.

He wasn’t ready, nor was he straight laced like Laurel. But  _Sara_ … like so many other girls he’d known, Sara more than up for a little joy riding, for breaking the rules one stepping stone at a time. She’d tried drugs - _been there, done that_ \- probably following his party habits and exploits to a ‘T’ which  _absolutely_  helped his ego trip. Drinking and fast driving were far behind them both. The more kinky and racy aspects to sexual play could never be explored with Laurel but Sara had more than made it obvious how very okay she was with that. So knowingly betraying her sister to cheat with Oliver Queen, her obvious crush? It hadn’t taken much at all. And he wouldn’t deny how good it could be with her. Sara looked at him in a way that Laurel never had. With Laurel, there was love and indulgent affection in her eyes but there was also expectation and future dreams. Dreams of him and the white picket fence deal. Sara stared at him with pure lust and adoration for the man he was. A sure ‘take me; I’m yours’. As it stood, she viewed him as pretty close to perfect.

_Who says I’m not?_

He knew she’d already realised that a long-term relationship was never in the cards. They’d fooling around for a few weeks now but they’d never once talked about the future, thank  _God_. This cruise was all about  _fishing_. To explore and see if they each fit together. And if not? A good time was a good time. What happens on the cruise stays on the cruise. 

 

* * *

 

 

**Starling City Airport, 2007**

Returning home hadn’t been with fanfare or with fireworks, with tears or with kisses…

It had been to the smug grin on his kid brother’s face.

“You look like crap.” Andy Diggle’s first words, said to John after over a year of him being incommunicado in Afghanistan.

Giving him the usual acerbic look, his face tightening with mock consternation, John Diggle shook his head. “Thanks for that. Good to see you too.”

“Mm hm. Got you a job.” Andy stated and watched his brother’s brows rise to his hairline - which albeit was barely existent. “You’re state-side now and I know that lazing about isn’t your strong suit.”

A nod. “No, it is  _not_.”

“Couldn’t tempt you to a few weeks of procrastination?”

John shook his head. “No. I need something to take my mind of things.”

“…Right.” _Things_. John heard his brother sigh as he bent to pick up his bag. On turning he found himself ensconced in his little brother’s arms.

“Welcome back bro.”

“Thanks man.” They let go of each other. “Anything happen while I was away?” 

“Not much.” Together they moved for the gates and when they got past the ticket barrier Andy spoke again, this time without breaking. “Since Queen’s Industrial Shipping Factory closed down there’s been a wave of unsolicited vandalism in the Glades, China’s influence in black market trade has increased and Carly has forbidden herself extracurricular activities at night until the crime rate drops again… which was about 3 months ago.”

A frown dampened the light in John’s face. “It’s that serious.”

But Andy didn’t sound so concerned about it. “Nah, it’ll blow over. Some other rich big-wig will open some other employment filled factory or store in the Glades and it’ll all be over. The cops are all over it.”

“You sure?” And if John Diggle sounded worried it was because he was. “The Glades were already taking a turn for the worst  _before_  I left.”

“I’d say it’s impossible for it to get any worse.”

Oh but it could. It really could. And it would.

It  _does_.

 

* * *

 

 

**Starling City, Queen’s Dock, 2007**

When Laurel Lance dreamed, she dreamed BIG.

Her dreams absolutely and always included two things: her future career and her future husband. The first, because in order of priorities it was the chief concern in her agenda, in her list of ‘to do’s’ _and_ it was still up for grabs. It wasn’t that she was insecure; she  _would_  be a lawyer, she knew this. But what type of lawyer and in what firm, was still up for debate. Nor was she insecure about her feelings for Ollie Queen.

The love of her life.

For she did love him. There wasn’t a day where she didn’t wonder about him, were she didn’t fantasize about their possibilities, where she didn’t picture them both in their expensive suits: him as he runs his father’s company and her, standing at the head of the DA syndicate where her father would look at her with more pride than ever. No, she wasn’t ashamed to admit that this picture pulled at her heart strings: ten years down the line, both of them career people, happily married, and absolutely  _no_  children, at least not for the foreseeable future…

Just as she wasn’t ashamed to admit that she also loved the man who he is now. Each state of self was a phase; they would eventually pass, clearing the way free for the stronger sense of self. The player that he was, this billionaire exhibitionist – literal in every sense of the term – and all around bad boy that did things for her body and mind that she would never speak of in public, wouldn’t last. It was temporary.

The proof? Ollie leaving with his father on the Queen’s Gambit for a business trip to China was evidence that he was starting to think more responsibly about his future and she couldn’t be more proud of him. Of  _them_.

 _And_  they would soon be moving in together.

It shouldn’t take them long at all: with her contacts and his money, it would be a breeze finding an apartment. A place where they could call home as they worked steadily up the corporate ladder.

Being with Oliver made all those cheesy love songs make sense. It was a dream.

For this she could ignore her sister’s crazy crush on her boyfriend. Future Fiancé. Sara just didn’t understand love. It wasn’t all hearts and roses: you had to be patient. She’d been patient.

Laurel had known about the infatuation for years: Sara had been besotted with Ollie since she was fourteen and him sixteen. Now, at just twenty? Sara wasn’t oblivious to the world: in many ways she lived a little too much for Laurel’s tastes so, no, she wasn’t ignorant. But she  _was_  naive.

Sara thought that Ollie could be swayed with a flutter of her lashes and a flirtatious grin. Underneath the face her boyfriend always showed, Laurel knew that Ollie was a man of deeper waters. That’s why he’d chosen her after all. Like minded and all that.

And Sara would just never understand that.

Her younger sister had never gotten over that one night, when she’d snuck out to Ollie’s party. Laurel had been there: for once not caught up in her studies. She’d thought nothing of it, until she’d seen Sara practically throw herself at Ollie: a shot in hand and a lust filled gaze and Laurel had immediately told her dad. This was before she and Ollie started dating. She’d be anxious. Knowing Sara’s promiscuous ways, she hadn’t wanted anything to happen between her and Ollie that would only leave Sara broken hearted the next day. Even if that was just what she told herself. That it was a total coincidence that she and Ollie had ended up dating during Sara’s grounding, the worst her dad had ever given her…

Ollie wasn’t meant for Sara. And one day Sara would meet the man who was meant for her; a strong, kind man who would love her despite everything - Laurel wholeheartedly believed this. Her perceptiveness rarely ran her astray.

Standing on the docks she glimpsed Ollie now, coming towards her.

He smirked and waved at her and everything inside her chest turned to goo. He was talking to someone on the phone, probably Tommy; his voice was too low to hear but Laurel could only concentrate on making sure he remembered her during his time away. When he came back she’d demonstrate all the ways she missed him before showing him the puppy she wanted to adopt.

It was a ridiculously cute picture, the image of him walking a dog with her.

Just as the idea of giving him her photo was sickeningly cute, making her question her choice; but she’d seen couples do this in the movies. War heroes and soldiers leaving home with their girls gifting them with mementoes. It was hopelessly romantic and she couldn’t get enough of the stuff. Pearl harbour was one of her all-time favourite movies.

 

* * *

 

 

**Starling City, Queen’s Dock, 2007**

Part of Sara couldn’t believe she was about to do this.

But she was in love and she had to do what she felt was right. Her mother had understood.

Huddled in the shaft between the Queen’s warehouse and an old tuck shop, feeling high on her feelings, she waited for the all clear from Ollie.

Who was currently  _dealing_  with Laurel. Her sister.

It should bother more, knowing what she was about to do, what she’d already pictured. Cheating with Ollie, though technically Sara had no one to cheat on.

Ollie’s character wasn’t heroic or gallant. He was a player, a cheater and sexy as hell. And Sara knew that he should be the last person she fell for. But she had anyway. She’d fallen for his smirk, which could be sweet when he relaxed, for his pretty blue eyes and how they sharpened when he was thinking about her naked, for his fair hair which gave him the look of a surfer…  _a surfer,_ god _, so sexy with his athlete’s body_ , that she very much appreciated and for his stamina  _mhmm_ , something she couldn’t ignore. She knew that she, herself, was just as disreputable as he. They were perfect for each other, right? They could understand the darker side of each other. Guys liked naughty and nice.

But then Laurel had sunk her nails into him first.

Her sister had  _know_ n; she’d seen it in her face that night before her first week of college, when she’d called their dad on her and had gotten her grounded. Grounded for so long that by the time she’d been released from what felt like captivity, Laurel and Ollie were officially a ‘thing’. And Laurel hadn’t had the decency to tell her to her face; Sara had found out through friends who now pitied her for fancying the college bad boy who had _definitely_ screwed her sister by then. He fucked girls; he didn’t  _wait_  for them.

But she’d wanted that. She’d wanted the sex and the sensual haze of drugs and  _him_  and parties and  _want want want_ …

Eventually she’d tried to forgive and forget. Going off to college had been a way to do that. But a party she’d gone to just a couple of months ago had totally torn that asunder. He’d been there. Ollie Queen, taking shot after shot as he stood there flirting with every girl he chose. Flirting with  _her_  after he’d seen her and made a beeline to where she was dancing.

_He’d wanted me._

And all those feelings she hadn’t buried, burned strong in her young heart. This wasn’t just a crush; she was head over heels in love. She’d fallen helplessly with every touch during sex, every chuckle, every delicious swirl of his hips, with every text and breath… she was all in.

As a last-ditch attempt to save whatever morality she possessed, she’d tried to talk to Laurel about his reputation for sleeping around but as usual she’d had her words twisted against her. Her sister simply thinking she was deliberately being a bitch instead of warning her about the things she’d seen in her partner. The same things she saw in the mirror daily.

The truth? Sara knew Ollie loved Laurel. Sure, he slept around, but Laurel was always the one he returned to, which told Sara a thing or two about him. Laurel was a dream and Ollie didn’t know what he wanted. He was still too young to know. He was under pressure at all sides: his family in regards to the family business and his education, from Laurel who wanted everything from him but didn’t try to see past the image he constantly showed her, from Tommy who was never without his wing man…

Sara didn’t want anything from him. Well she did. She wanted his  _attention_. And his time. To show him that there may be alternatives for him, other than Laurel, where he didn’t have to try to build a future, where his education and status meant little, where he could just be Ollie. The rich, bad boy heir with a like for drugs and alcohol and a tendency for slacking off.

But Ollie was also very smart. She could have listened to him talk economics and whatever all day. He was talented and gifted and  _perfect_  for her. In time he’d grow into whatever he was supposed to become and maybe he’d grow in to  _her_  too. They could do it together. They didn’t need to be better people. He already was better. He was Ollie.  _Mine_.

And if Laurel ever found out about this…

Her dad would royally kill her. But then maybe Laurel would learn that trying to force something to happen, sometimes had the opposing effect. She should have just left Ollie alone. For Sara. It wasn’t as if she wanted to hurt Laurel, but she’d been hurt. Weren’t older sisters supposed to protect their siblings? She knew that this boat trip would have always happened one way or another. Laurel had just stopped it from being a romantic one; with Sara as the girlfriend instead of the ‘fun time in China’. But who knew what could happen? In just a few short weeks Ollie could easily have a change of heart. There were things Sara could do better than Laurel that Ollie would find out about.

…What Sara  _didn’t_  realise was that even now, ‘Ollie’ was already a façade. And that she too was still too young to understand that or appreciate its consequences.

 

* * *

 

 

**Avant Garde Hotel, 2007**

Tommy Merlyn…

Currently had a girl between his legs.

Thoughts of Oliver leaving were the last thing on his mind; when Ollie returned it would be business as usual. They’d both separated for weeks at a time before and though he’d initially told Ollie that yachts suck and he’d be beyond bored, he was getting over it pretty quickly.

To the petit brunette whose head was bobbing slowly up and down on his lap… the previous night, all he’d had to do was tell her his name. That’s all it had taken. Well, _that_ , and the promise of being America’s next top model. A promise he had no plans fulfilling. Ever.  _Keep dreaming sweetheart._ He just wanted to get off. Well Ollie had Laurel to get off with… and that other girl, _Samantha something_. And Natalie. Janine, Max Fuller’s wife. Tina…

He smiled.  _Tina_. He missed Tina; she was into group play. And she was a stunner. Not a great dancer but she could do things with her tongue that drove every memory in his head deep down into the same gutter he drank his life away.

Licking his lips he felt the tell-tale tingling through his testicles. His toes curled and he let out a deep sigh as the girl – he doesn’t remember her name and doesn’t care to – moaned. The sound reverberated to deeper muscles in his crotch, furthering him on when she moved faster. Sucked harder. Deeper. Teeth scraping  _up_ -

 _That’s right._ He thought. Hips gyrating into her warm mouth as he spilled over.  _You want this. All the girls love Tommy Merlyn._

Being a billionaire was sweet.

 

* * *

 

 

**Starling City, Queen’s Dock 2007**

Robert had explained to her. Many times.

Each lapse in judgement, every moment of weakness he’d confessed to. And each time she’d forgiven him. Even his affairs - some of which she’d known about, some she hadn’t - she’d accepted and moved forwards. Maybe it wasn’t healthy or normal and it made her question her importance to him. Many would wonder, if they knew, why she’d stayed with such a man.

Of course, most married couples weren’t like Robert and Moira. Two very different yet surprisingly similar people who could and did lie readily, who glossed over details of their own nefarious deeds - there were several - and turned a blind eye to their partners transgressions, though Robert was more culpable in this than she. They used their wealth and status to manipulate their own lives, disregarding the impact it could and would have on others. Robert had affairs. Several of them, spread out over the years. He’d admitted to most and Moira understood. Sometimes he needed it. Sometimes she wasn’t enough.

However, she knew he loved her dearly. He always came back to her. Yet there had to be more than love in a marriage for it to last. So they’d managed a routine of sorts. Some couples were rewarded with unconditional love and affection; others had the love die quicker than it started. At least she  _had_  his love. Moira had resigned herself to this, had grown accustomed to it. Comfortable. Besides, he wasn’t the only one to have lapsed and to have wandered into another’s arms.

But he’d sinned a sin so much greater than she’d ever anticipated.

Robert had killed a councilman. Years before. Technically it was manslaughter but the crime would never make it to the light to be solved. He’d gotten rid of all evidence and if he hadn’t, Moira would have.

The man had tried to blackmail him. They’d gotten into a heated argument that ended in violence. And instead of coming to her, Robert had turned to his friend Malcolm Merlyn. Together they’d started Tempest: a secret organisation with only one goal in mind. To change Starling City for the better.

The conversation between them just a few days before had chilled Moira. To hear that the group she’d joined had started in such a way made her blood run cold. Made her question things. In many ways it was all a lie. But the worse part of it was that she was beginning to see that in dealing with the criminally wealthy and using them to make everything Tempest wanted possible, they had all tainted themselves.

She reassured herself that it was all for the greater good.

Waving now to the boat that held her son and husband, Moira watched them depart into the distance. She’d tried to convince both of them that it wasn’t the best idea right now for her son to be gallivanting across the ocean. He had school (there were always other colleges willing to accept more funding for a new science lab or football stadium) and Laurel to think about. But maybe this was a good idea: for Oliver to learn more about the family business. It was nice, she had to admit, to see him, eager to take on even a small mantle of responsibility. So whilst she didn’t approve of the idea, there were worst things.

It seemed more than one person was wearing rose coloured glasses this day.

Turning away to walk towards the Limo, she saw her driver already seated and waiting. She had a meeting to attend with Malcom in the morning, one he’d called for suddenly and asked as one friend to another for it to be just between them. It wasn’t very unusual. They were all old friends after all. But couldn’t he have just spoken to her today before Robert set sail? She’d been feeling uneasy about their liaison and friendship since Robert had confessed his darkest sin to her.

She had a few hours of indulgent shopping with her 12-year-old daughter to think about this afternoon. The meeting with Malcolm could wait further thought.

 

* * *

 

 

**The Moment…**

I’m sorry.

Like most stories involving tales of heroic upsurge, the ordinary first have to fall.

Ollie Queen has to fall.

And in many ways he never got back up. Never rose from the tide. He disappeared beneath the surface and just… didn’t rise. Couldn’t. Not ‘Ollie’. ‘Ollie’ died one day in October 2007.

But he wasn’t alone in descending. And there are many forms in plunging down.

Here’s a taste…

* * *

 

 

**The Waters of Lian Yu, 2009**

What makes a man good?

Is it his choices? His skills? Is it his emotions or the words he uses? Maybe it’s the way he reacts or doesn’t react or the way he loves and the way he loses.

If any of this was the case then  _Oliver Queen_ believed he had failed. He’d failed before he realised he’d even had to try.

Two years. It had been two years. He’d almost forgotten.

_Just let me die._

This was hell.

Hell refused to let him lie down here and just _leave_. To leave a life he no longer understood. To leave his body; a body so different now from the one who’d pecked his mother on the cheek, giving her that cocky smile, like the idiot he was, as he loaded his only bag onto the deck of the Queen’s Gambit, thoughts occupied by the blonde waiting for him inside.

If he could smile the mockery of it would kill him.

The island was a living nightmare. Piece by piece it had stolen everything bright and free; had shown him who and what he really was, had revealed the man beneath who didn’t deserve anything good, anything rewarding.

Now he floats lifelessly in the ocean by the rocks of the islands surrounding Lian Yu. Barely conscious. Memories fleeting and thoughts running wild as water licks his wounds.

It was so still, this place. An atmosphere hung over it, at times almost supernatural, at others, lonely. Mostly it was forbidding. Frightening.

He’d gotten used to it.

It suited him.

A place where he could be as cruel, as merciless, as unflattering and as morally reprehensible as he needed. No one could judge him here. He could hide and die without facing what he had become.

As if it lived and breathed, Lian Yu demanded acquiescence. Strength. It demanded courage and ruthlessness combined. It demanded change. It demanded a price. When he was told the truth, he couldn’t even laugh at the fact that the literal translation of Lian Yu - the Mandarin title where he would serve his sentence for living a life of worthlessness - literally meant Purgatory. It just made him surer that he wasn’t getting out alive.

But that was long ago: mere weeks after his arrival.

Living daily with the idea that death was inevitable wasn’t conducive to hope. So, Ollie had none. And Ollie became Oliver. No one called him Ollie anymore.

Sara had, when he’d seen her again.

It hadn’t felt real.

When he’d first landed on the rocky plains of the coastline he’d passed out, waking hours later to pull the raft he’d lived in for days without food. It held his father’s body, which was, by then, covered with flies. And birds. And other things.

The first few weeks after burying his father was a haze of terror, curiosity and confusion. Depression had descended quickly; combined thickly with what was probably shock. He hadn’t cried when his father died. Not even as he’d buried him. He’d thrown up. Twice. But he hadn’t cried.

Something had been very wrong with him. Maybe even before then, deep in his core, maybe he’d always been  _bad_.

Meeting Yao Fei taught him loyalty and the basics of survival. Edward Fyers taught him contempt. Taught him to hate. His adept first teacher in the meaning of greed. In the lust men and women have for power. Slade Wilson was the purest example of a warrior to be found there; he taught him how to fight, how to be strong just as Shado taught him why self-acceptance was both powerful and impossible for him to understand. And how to shoot a bow. How to speak Mandarin.

Both had forced him to know betrayal. To see the agony of his own weaknesses.

And then Sara…

Sara showed him regret. Of acceptance to the shadows.

Her arrival forced him to face that he was no longer who he once was. And that he liked neither of his ‘selves’.

On the island… it was dark. Empty and painful and he didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to join in the light anymore. It was too hard. There was nobody left anyway, nobody to save him.

They were all gone.

 _All of them_.

So, what was the point? There would be no more adventures, no more sacrifices. Maybe now it was time to join his father, who he’d failed. He wasn’t the first. Wasn’t the last.

…As his consciousness ebbed he swore he heard the rumble of a motor boat, the ripples in the water increasing…

 

* * *

 

 

**Gotham City, December 2009**

It was cold. Dark. 

As night fell, so did the snow. And it was past midnight.

The stillness of Gotham City winters.

It was something she’d grown to love. Now the cold crept in as silence.

Her nightmares would start here, end here. Ghosts of her past whisper in her ears, wrapping around her mind, silkily like the arms of lure. 

She couldn’t reason with this, couldn’t understand why her fingers twitched the way they did where they lay. Or the very real slant of her emotions, her  _sanity_ -

 _-It couldn’t-I don’t-why-he just- I can’t- that didn’t happen-I’m not-_   ** _No_**.

No.

 **_Never_ ** **-**

-Couldn’t process what had just happened. Thoughts were useless. A zombie had more life in it than she. Some people went to war as soldiers. Others were involved in accidents or environmental catastrophes. And individuals suffered through the whims of another. Things happened to people all over the world that are simply beyond control. And it’s always unfair.

But this was different. A different kind of madness. Her own.

Alone. 

In the quiet.

**_So quiet_ **

The storm had finally found her.

 _It’s black here._ There were shadows in Gotham. They crept up, reaching and clawing and crawling up the skin. Pulling her in. Shadows far more dangerous than the horrors roaming Vegas or Massachusetts.

On her back as the night ensconced, her large beige coat stained with white and black - as blood looks black in the moonlight - she stared up into the sky. It swallowed her whole, the dark. Stars were fleeting. Glass fell almost slowly, in spattering’s here and there. The building to her side stood twenty eight stories high. Nobody cared.

A muscle spasmed. The side of her mouth  _twitched_.

…Wet fur brushed against her fingers.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. She wasn’t quite awake. Barely alive at all. Didn’t really feel the pain. Not yet. Not ever. Not really. Never. Just the sense of wrongness of it all.

The anarchy of her psychosis.

 _That’s… what I get_ , she supposed; eyes wide and unfocused, irises almost colourless, the blue of her veins dark against the white…  _for trying to do the right thing_.

She’d **never** stop. It was her nature.

 

* * *

 

 

**The start…**

It wasn’t all that was faced. There are other stories to tell.

But in the time preceding and the time that followed, what once existed became… different. Something else. Something new.

Because in order to beat death, to survive? One first has to rise. And rise again.

Until lambs become lions.

One would. One did. They had to.

Not a single soul would be untouched by the ramifications.

Good or bad? I’ll leave it up to you to decide…

 

* * *

 

 

**Starling City, October 2012**

They found him. Or rather, he  _let_  himself be found.

_The name of the island they found me on is… Lian Yu. It's mandarin for purgatory. I've been stranded here for 5 years. I've dreamt of my rescue every cold black night since then. And I’ve changed._

_For 5 years, I’ve had only one thought, one goal - survive... survive and one day return home. The island held many dangers. To live, I had to make myself more than what I was, to forge myself into a weapon. I am returning not the boy who was shipwrecked but the man who will bring justice to those who have poisoned my city…_

WEBG Starling City 7 News

_“…Oliver Queen is alive. The Starling City resident was found by fishermen in the North China sea 5 days ago, 5 years after he was missing and presumed dead following the accident at sea which claimed "The Queen's Gambit." Queen was a regular tabloid presence and a fixture at the Starling City club scene. Shortly before his disappearance, he was acquitted of assault charges stemming from a highly publicized drunken altercation with paparazzi. Queen is the son of Starling City billionaire Robert Queen, who was also on board but now officially confirmed as deceased…”_

** Starling City Hospital **

“…20% of his body is covered in scar tissue. Second-degree burns on his back and arms. X-rays show at least 12 fractures that never properly healed…”

**So much has happened.**

“Has he said anything about what happened?”

“No. He's barely said anything.  Moira, I'd like you to prepare yourself. The Oliver you lost... he might not be the one they found.”

**So much is about to.**

_And now I will fulfil my father's dying wish: to use the list of names he left me and bring down those who are poisoning my city. To do this, I must become someone else. I must become something else_.

_My name is Oliver Queen._

It starts.


	2. Whisper of a Thrill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to post this with the first chapter but figured if I can't update double each time then there's no point.  
> This is also for Flailykermit, the sweetest person I've met on tumblr and thought: 'we are so like minded'...  
> Oh!! This story has a theme song. Its: Beautiful Crime by Tamer. And if fits more than I can explain right now. Enjoy.

** **

 

**Starling City, Queen’s Park, October 2012**

Starling City air was thick with the promise of an autumn fog. It spoke in the dew on the grass, the chill that settled on the hands after weeks of warm-ish weather. Starling could rarely boast hot summers but it had been nice enough for the skinny denim shorts, spaghetti straps and sleeveless dresses to break free of their confinement.

It was 05:30am.

_So much for sleeping in. Not like I ever do but- so not the point._

Feet beating a steady drum against the damp pavement - the only sound in the very still, early hour of the morning - Felicity concentrated solely on her breaths. Every measured inhale and exhale was in perfect alignment with her steps. Sometimes she felt that all she ever did was run.

As far as she could. As fast as she liked.

Rounding the bend in her path she came to her halfway point: an old tree that had been standing in this same park for almost 90 years. Cantankerous, she named it, for the way it stood so decidedly against the elements and refused to weather were all other trees and bushes died. The branches created a canopy against rain and wind.

The sight of it was a reminder to pause.

She didn’t. She could keep going easily _._ She’d jogged these steps before. Almost every single day. A routine adopted after waking bored, alone and antsy after too little sleep.

Too much adrenaline. Or at least, that’s what her doctor told her. Tablets didn’t help either, leaving her doctors perplexed. Felicity knew why they didn’t work but it wasn’t like she could explain. Cardiovascular seemed to be one of the few things that did the trick. It allowed her to regulate her breathing, much like yoga (which she excelled in), that forced her body to calm way the hell down when it was  _beyond_  worked up.

After this she’d return home, shower, eat, and drink liberal amounts of coffee as she watched the news before heading off to work. ‘Work’ was at Queen Consolidated where she lived. The. Dream.

She was an IT Technician; the best in her department, if the way her own supervisor used her like lap dog was anything to go by. Though, if she were to deduce her collective status as a whole from that she’d say she was the best in the building since every office head had come down to her department, asking for her help with filing, matrix’s, virus’s, security, even simple password discrepancies. On occasion she’d been volunteered (cough *forced* cough) to be a stand in for department heads, like a Court Stenographer, in board meetings. _‘Bored Meetings’ is more accurate_.

Today was a 08:00 till 18:00 day. Long hours she didn’t really have to work at all but chose to because… because her mind never, _ever_ stopped working. Because no matter how hard she tried not to, Felicity Smoak always seemed to have too much time on her hands.

With her extracurricular activities, she didn’t understand how that was possible. Though it helped that she had no family in Starling.

Technically her shift ended at 15:00. It could have ended at 14:00. For the extra few hours she did one of two things: she either worked on programmes and software that could and would benefit Queen Consolidated in the future or she used the company’s optimal operational grid to map out her own contingencies and interests, which were… unusual.

It was a new day. Another chance for endless possibilities that would hopefully keep her active.

 

* * *

 

 

Felicity had moved to Starling January 2010. It had immediately felt like home. Like  _her_ , which was a first. There was a darkness to the City,  _not_  like Gotham. Less malevolent, more atmospheric. Clouds were ever-present and there was a behavioural code that she’d had to learn quickly: mostly involving the Glades.

The Glades.

A swirling pool of crime, poverty, and depression, characterised mostly by a loss of hope.

But the hope wasn’t  _gone_.

Shaking her head - _not now brain -_ Felicity closed and locked her front door before hurrying towards the shower past the stairs in her, ah,  _unusual_  abode - more on that later - and wiping the trace of sweat off her forehead as she went. It wasn’t like she was going to be late: she never was. But she knew Walter Steele would need all hands on deck today, what with his plans for the Unidac Industries - Queen Consolidated merger. Not that she’d be needed personally, she wasn’t of that level of importance.

The Unidac CEO had made it his business to increase project development in all their areas of scientific interest, for it was a scientific research corporation and probably would have succeeded in the production of all sorts of brilliant new technologies and ideas. However, excluding a rather brilliant peak service for PC operators, Unidac Industries had forgotten how to self-service. It was losing too much money holding itself together by its lonesome. Soon, it would either declare bankruptcy or be sold.

Walter Steele, the CEO of Queen Consolidated, had looked ahead and, seeing the value in its developmental possibilities, had kept his eye on it for some time. The only reason why a lowly IT technician such as herself knew about it was because when her supervisor had been on sick leave _she’d_ had to deal with the numbers regarding one of their many accounts and stock holdings in front of the _entire_ board of financial directors and after babbling insecurely - giving in to full-on nervous giggle - she’d managed to deliver the information by heart. Since then Mr Steel had, at random, asked small tasks of her.

It was a level of trust she hadn’t expected.

Felicity nodded to herself as, with her hair dried, combed and tied into a ponytail, glasses fixed to her face, she breezed back into the living room, heading for the kitchen.  _Coffee. Coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee…_  

She pressed the button on her built-in kitchen monitor as she moved swiftly past, the TV immediately blaring bright the 06:25 news on WEBG. There were other news channels, but WEBG was the least bias of the lot. It opted for straight facts instead of gossip. So early in the morning, at the crack of whatever, she went to where it was safest.

A dark skinned newsman was in front of the camera.  _“After a savage six month manhunt Carlos Vuentes, one of the notorious ‘Three’ has been caught and incarcerated for his ten year stretch in human trafficking. Though the prosecution are hesitant to give a more precise answer to this, they have promised to push for life imprisonment regardless of plea.”_

As the coffee maker started to drip its beautiful, chocolate coloured elixir Felicity opened a cupboard to her right, reaching on tiptoe for cereal bars and various oat mixes.

_“Sources say he was hand delivered in the early hours of the morning and though SCPD refuse to comment, a camera recording taken off a passer-by reveal Mr Vuentes to have been bound and gagged - the police had to carry him inside the station.”_

Glancing carefully up from her mug Felicity caught the blurred snapshot of the Latin-American Trafficker unconscious - the horizon had barley broken the dark onscreen - what looked like a ripped shirt was wrapped around half his face.

_“We don’t know the identity of this gift giver but we were able to garner from the words between two policemen, both present at the scene that the trafficker had spoken through a partially broken jaw. He said ‘I didn’t see him. He was too fast. It was too dark. I didn’t see him’.”_

Watching as the shot switched from the news reporter to activity outside of the courthouse, Felicity absently munched on her cereal bar as dozens of people protested against the trafficker who’d incurred another level of fear amongst young boys in the Glades – his victims.

**_Vote for death penalty_ **

**_Justice for Cory_ **

_“He’s finally where he belongs!”_ The shout of one of the civilians was low against yesterday’s wind.  _“Now if the police could actually get their fingers out of their asses like the Watchman, the Glades would be a much safer place to live!”_

Her eyes flickered away from the screen to her coffee maker, now ready to serve and poured herself a level cup of the steaming substance. Adding milk and sugar she took a sip, looking back to the news. The broadcasting studio was back. 

 _“It seems like once again, evidence of the existence of this Watchman has been provided. Now the question on everyone’s lips: who is this lone avenger? Candice; what do you think?”_ The reporter turned to his partner, a newswoman with cropped, black hair and a sharp gaze.  _“Well Nick, over the past 2 years, sightings of the Watchman’s deeds are a whisper growing into a sound in the Glades, one loud enough to-”_

 _Theatricality._ Tuning the reporter out Felicity checked her phone for messages -  _shoot,_  she had an early order at Ma Jo’s coffee shop to deliver - before moving to get her shoes from under the couch where she’d thrown them the night before. She slipped one on, forgetting about the clasp at the back so that she was inevitably hopping on one foot -  _Frack, genius level intellect my ass_ \- as she attempted to reach for her toothbrush, which she left on the side of the kitchen sink-

_“-Oliver Queen is alive.”_

Head shooting up, toothbrush lodged firmly inside her mouth she blinked at the TV where pictures of Oliver - ‘Ollie the playboy legend’ - Queen were being flashed one by one across the screen. A re-recording of the previous night’s events, the timer on the bottom right of the screen flashing 10:33pm.

 _“…The Starling City resident was found by fishermen in the North China sea 5 days ago, 5 years after he was missing and presumed dead following the accident at sea which claimed ‘The Queen's Gambit’.”_ Her jaw fell open, toothbrush and paste splattering onto her kitchen floor. _“Queen was a regular tabloid presence and a fixture at the Starling City club scene. Shortly before his disappearance, he was acquitted of assault charges stemming from a highly publicized drunken altercation with paparazzi. Queen is the son of Starling City billionaire Robert Queen, who was also on board but now officially confirmed as deceased.”_

Video footage followed this, detailing ‘Ollie’s’ public rise to Prince of the Starling City’s club scene including a picture of him and his father, but Felicity didn’t see or hear any of it.

“Whoa.” The son of her boss had made it home.

_Wasn’t he… I mean wasn’t he supposed to be dead?_

Well it was definitely one way to wake up in the morning. It was insane. Chances are the guy was at Starling General as she stood there rooted to the floor, blinking gormlessly with an arm lifted, finger poised as if about to make a mental point. Queen Consolidated would be in an absolute uproar about this; everyone in the building wondering about how the return of the prodigal son would shape the future of the company instead of what they _should_ be wondering about.

Their work? Hell _yes_ , their work, thank you very much. 

Oh, she just knew she’d be an inevitable buffer today for the rumour mill. Closing her eyes with a long-suffering groan she reached down, fastening on her other shoe. If there was one thing the employees at QC were good at, it was gossip. Sure they did their jobs well, they paid manners with interest but all of them hid behind this venire of care and worship for their superiors when really, most just wanted a pay rise. And something to discuss on nights out.

Felicity wondered absently if Mr Steele would even be available today. How he must feel at the prospect of welcoming back his now step-son when the guy probably didn’t even remember his face. And if Oliver Queen had been found, what had happened to his father?

A quick glance down at her form reminded her of the fallen toothpaste. “Great start to the day.”

A new day. Endless possibilities.

 

* * *

 

 

**Queen Consolidated**

It was official: QC was a gossip fish bowl.

News of Mr Queen’s return spread  _fast_. In fact, it spread so quickly it had only taken the time it took for Felicity to leave her small office in search of coffee and come back again for it to reach her that _‘didn’t you know? Walter Steele’s coming into QC today’_ … and  _she_  had been the one to inform her supervisor in the first place.

How had she discovered this priceless nugget before her head of office? She was friends with the senior security head, an ageing man with an addiction to cream cakes who’d told her as she entered the building that morning to expect Mr Steele to arrive within the hour, but that the man would only be staying half the day. His wife, Moira Queen, wanted him with her for support. Felicity had blinked at the news, passing Rufus his bag of Ma Jo’s delicacies and hefting her folder stack in her arms before stepping into the elevator, wondering at how the return of the Queen heir had already changed the shape of her day.

Now, the person to inform her of this exciting piece of gossip was Teresa Tanning, the office administrator. She worked around Felicity’s supervisor Ned Stole and - _for some reason I cannot fathom_ \- basically organised everything from his schedule to his diet. She was also in charge of maintaining order on their floor - she took this and only this seriously - as she was so very slightly senior than Felicity and, therefore, thought she was the boss of her. A day rarely went by without Teresa sticking her bronze locks around Felicity’s door to remind her about break schedules etc. But head her off with a slip of office gossip and she’d leave you be for a day or a week depending on the scale of ‘juiciness’ the gossip fell into.

“Feliccccity-”, _yep_ , that’s how she said her name; long c’s that sounded like s’s, as if her name was the appellation for snake language. _Ugh_. “Ned’s CPU crashed again.”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes she nodded; her lips spread in an utterly fake smile of understanding as Teresa faffed around the floor. She let out a loud, unladylike exhale when the woman was out of range.  _Ned’s CPU did not crash again – unless he was downloading porn._  For the third time. Memories never to be spoken or thought of, though it may one day be of great use in regards to blackmail material. Felicity had never blackmailed a work colleague. But if she had to scrub clean his system one more time for malware he’d caught whilst transferring data without a licence…

Maybe she’d take another look to diagnose his hardware, see if anything popped up.

Last month he’d almost caused irreparable damage to a contract QC was hoping to settle because, being the head of their department, he’d attempted to install a DBMS (Database Management System) incompatible with the already present security software.

When Felicity had first started working at QC she’d pondered, hard, on how such a man who’d boasted his supremacy over any OS in existence, could have been made IT Supervisor. Since then, she’d realised he did indeed have a gift: Ned was proficient in delegating the work load. _Asshole_.

Seated now at her rounded desk in a room that was just out of sight of her colleagues, but close enough that she’d be able to hear if they needed assistance Felicity booted up her personal collection of monitors, towers and servers and opened the lock to her desk cabinet. Inside sat her favourite coffee mug: Robin Hood was displayed in all his glory on one half as an arrow flew around the other. She nipped over to the 21st floor’s kitchen area, pilfering from the office’s coffee supply, sighing as the scent wafted up her nose.

“So maybe I’m a  _little_  addicted.” She admitted to herself, though it came out more as a question than a statement. “It’s not like I actually  _need_  coffee to survive or anything...”

Walking back with her full cup she was interrupted from her internal debate, which now included a long list of the pros and cons of caffeine, by –  _I think his name is Giles? Please god let it be Giles_ ; a scruffy haired messenger who worked the floors from 07:30am till 12:00pm each morning.

His eyes were a little bewildered as he caught up to her and she made sure to cradle her cup. “Heads up Fee.” She caught the eye twitch before it left her: Gods, how she hated that nickname. Yet _everyone_ from 13th floor to the 30 th seemed to know it- people she’d never _met_ before knew it. “Your Super’s making his rounds. And it looks like he’s got Mr Steele with him!”

Her eyebrows shot into her hairline.  _Oh boy._ Since when did this  _ever_  happen? “Mr Steele is on this floor?” It sounded like a mothball had crawled into her mouth.

“Yeah!” Already stepping away from her Giles moved towards the elevators. If Giles excelled at one thing, it was that he took pride in his job meaning that he got all messages, memos, instructions, documents, packages and mail to the suitable places  _before_  time. “I think it’s got something to do with Mr Queen making his return to Starling.”

He was the first person to specifically mention the taboo. Shaking herself out of her stupor, she jittered on her modest heels towards him as he thumbed for the lift and hissed stupidly; as if there was anybody else around to hear her. “Do you know if anyone else has heard the news?” Unlike her and Giles, most of her fellow employees stayed in bed for as long as they could in the mornings.

Distracted, his leg kept bouncing on the spot, he answered. “No, but it won’t be long. There’s a TV in the kitchens.” True, in HD too and it was always fixed on a channel that broke bulletins of celebrity gossip. Luck or no luck, the floor would be buzzing with the news before 11am. _Darn it_. “You shouldn’t be worrying about that though; Mr Steele’s got an order for delivery this morning; saw it on the way in.”

This time she did wince. “Thanks for the heads up.” She muttered before hurrying over to her seat, careful not to spill a drop.

An order for delivery usually meant an acquisition for computerised goods and services; each time she’d been forced to check on Ned’s work and  _each time_  she’d found some sort of inconsistency or that he’d fumbled on something. Sorting out his mess enabled her work to run more efficiently. It was something she told herself but in truth she honestly cared about the company she worked for. Its potential and fairness, its long reach… Its capability for growth. Its boss.

Walter Steele. A man who envisioned greatness. A man who told her - pretty succinctly too - two minutes into her initial stomach churning interview, that she was over qualified for the job. But he’d handed it to her anyway, stating that to let her go would be the equivalent to financial suicide. ‘Stay ahead of our competitors’, he’d said. And since then, on the few times they crossed each other’s path he’d never endeavoured to look down his nose at her or tried to fob her work; he’d always displayed a calm pride in his staff. He’d taken her babbling in his stride too, with nods and small, short, if not awkward, smiles.

Though barely existent, she’d never forget that kindness. It was worth more than she could ever express.

Strange though that he was making a personal visit to her floor: there was no need. Normally, an email to Mr Stole’s office was more than satisfactory. But Walter Steele was like that. Sometimes he’d show up, randomly, to garner second and third opinions. Other times Mrs Queen would be on his arm and on a good day, if she actually managed to come across the woman, she’d barely managed to speak a stuttered word, never mind a babbling sentence without sounding like she’d just eaten a vibrator - _ah, even my brain is against me_. The woman was intimidating with a capitol ‘I’. Remembering their one close encounter, where she hadn’t really even talked or looked at her, Mrs Queen’s - _Mrs Steele-Queen, she sounds like a woman who hyphenates -_ eyes had surveyed with cool purpose. Steel was an adjective truly worthy of description for that woman.

“Miss Smoak?”

A blink, a jolt and a palpitation later and Felicity’s brain began to compute that Walter Steele was, this very moment, standing in her office.

 _Annnnnd_  staring down at her from behind her desk like he’d already been speaking and she hadn’t heard a single thing.  _Repair!_

“Mr Steele! I-I didn’t notice you standing there sir.”  _Smooth._

He cocked a brow. “Evidently.”

Her stomach churned with embarrassment. “I’m sorry sir, sometimes my brain just goes  _blurg-” Blurg? Really? “_ A _-_ and I see and hear things that- not that I hallucinate or anything _-” Oh god I’m talking: my mouth is moving and I’m saying things._ “I’m just saying that sometimes my mind runs away with me.”  _Abort!_ “Like my mouth.”  _Shut up!_  “Not that you’ve noticed my mouth.”  _Oh this ship is so going down…_ “W-what I mean to say is-”

She was saved by British manners when Mr Steele, bless him profusely, raised a hand in a gesture of pause. “I know what you meant.” Letting out a sigh of relief - she’d be deeply mortified if she wasn’t used to this happening almost every single day of her life - she watched Mr Steele lift up what looked like an order form. “I have last year’s financial trends for requisitions; I want them lined up with this year’s tally.”

_So it had zero to do with Mr Queen’s return from the big dirt nap. Mr Steele doesn’t appear at all affected by it but maybe that’s just British manners._

Mr Steele passed them over to Felicity who looked from him, to the sheet and back again. “So soon? Even though we haven’t finished with 2012?”  _Unusual. To say the least._

“Even though.” _To say the very least._ “The new directive for the updated OP’s is in the back.” Brown eyes looked dead set at her blue ones. “I trust you can handle it.”

 _The order? Or something else?_  “Of course! You aren’t giving them to Ned sir?”

He shook his head this time. “No.” Looking truly un-rumpled and every inch the British noble he could have been but wasn’t Mr Steel turned to march from her office, his voice carrying over his shoulder. “If any irregularities show up, I want the report on my desk in 48 hours Miss Smoak.”

She actually shot up from her seat; as if to salute the man already striding own the hall. “You’ll have them Mr Steele!” She didn’t expect an answer so she sat again with a poof of breath. “Well, that was very brief. Like all the men in my life.”

 _He isn’t handing them to Ned this time? It isn’t really my job to do this sort of thing. And what was that about irregularities?_ But if there was one thing Felicity Smoak was proficient at, other than computers, it was her skill in getting to the root of a problem. To the fundamentals. Mr Steele was trusting her with something once again.

“Right!” Linking her fingers together she stretched them, cracking the knuckles and, apart from the sound making her feel gross, did nothing for her. “Let’s get to work!”

 

* * *

 

 

**Timeless Hotel, Private Sweet, 10:16am**

_Ugh, God…_

He swore he’d stop doing this to himself months ago, a _year_ ago, after Laurel… but he always ended up right back where he’d started. Between a girl’s thighs.

_I’m surprised I wasn’t born this way._

Since he’d spent almost half his life cradled by a woman’s legs, it was an understandable consideration. Though sometimes he’d wake up half to completion, hard as a rock as whatever lucky pick of the night - he never remembered their names - sucked him off.

He was glad this wasn’t the case this time. She wasn’t Laurel, so he didn’t want her down there. It used to be his favourite past time. Getting off with whatever willing female was in reach. But more and more often, since… _since Oliver_ … he’d begun to limit sexual opportunities and erect - pun intended - barriers during his one night stands.

At the beginning, after Ollie disappeared, all Tommy had done was fuck around, get high on whatever was being passed by him and generally drink himself into a coma. But it had lessened eventually, mostly. Sort of.

Not that he’d  _fully_  stopped with his alcohol hazed nights; the ones he never remembered the start of but, with a stupid smile on his face, always felt the aftershocks of the finish. It was just that they’d started to lose their ‘touch’, so to speak.

They weren’t doing their job.

In the past, a night of wild sex prepared him for the cool countenance of his father, the absence of his mother, and set him up for the ride a full day of bromance (he fully admitted the term) with his best friend and partner in crime, Ollie, would be.

He  _missed_  Ollie.

Missed the jokes and the laughter, missed them trailing after skirts, missed Oliver’s jokes on how much Tommy liked  _getting_  ‘head’ and how much Ollie liked to  _give_  head. He missed having him on his personal speed dial; the first person he’d make a call to in the morning. But more than anything he missed having someone who was just like him: a little lost, with a near unlimited libido and an education that didn’t quite match his inheritance. Like Oliver, Tommy hadn’t graduated from Harvard.

Thoughts of past lost quickly melted away as the girl beneath him shifted, half asleep. He wasn’t inside her, having managed to pull out before they both lost consciousness, but he was close. And she was warm. It would be easy to bury himself again in the girl whose name he knew not, and forget who he was too. However -  _oh right, I forgot; I’m limiting myself_  - he’d only brought three condoms and they were all used up.

He was really growing as a person. 

Rolling sideways, his shoulders and arms groaned under his own weight, completely spent, as he reached for the glass of water on the cabinet next to the bed.  _I’ve still got it._

The swanky hotel room was already light meaning he was probably late for whatever meeting his father wanted him to attend and he didn’t care.  _It’s not like I’m even interested._ Squinting, he peered at the girl to his right who’d very simply said the previous night, that she was horny and wanted him to take care of it. _For I am a man of deep waters_.

By how she was snoring, he guessed he’d done his job. Not like he ever failed.  _Don’t let it be said that Tommy Merlyn wasn’t Devil-smooth between the sheets._

The ‘she’ was still lying on her back and totally rocking the body she was born with.

Reaching for the remote he flicked a channel on the 42 inch screen in the room and immediately it flashed on TMZ: Celebrity Gossip and Entertainment News.

His eyes opened wide when an old picture of Oliver appeared on screen next to the words: Oliver Queen is alive. He turned up the volume on the woman reporter speaking.

_“Queen’s return has everyone guessing. Where was he? And how did the billionaire even survive five years without vodka shots or room service?”_

“You lucky son of a bitch…”  _Ollie!_  His excited whisper had him flying out of bed and grabbing the clothes he’d thrown everywhere.  _I don’t believe it!_ “He’s alive!”

The outburst had the  _second_  girl he’d brought back with him, stumbling from the bathroom.

Well… he hadn’t gown  _that_  much.

_Whoops._

Totally smashed, she hadn’t lasted more than a single orgasm before sliding to the floor. With smudged make up and a puffy face, he didn’t understand how he’d thought she’d been sexy the night before.

 _Whatever._ He didn’t let it bother him. Couldn’t. Because Oliver was back. His wing man. He shrugged on his shirt haphazardly, grinning like a fool and hopped into his boxers.

“What’s going on?” Girl 2 managed to mumble as girl 1 rolled over; asleep once more. He gave a quick mental note to pay the desk clerks to have them kicked out by noon.

“He’s alive!” He didn’t care if she understood, she was nobody, and he just skipped past her, pants still in his hands as he bolted out the door, yelling joyfully down the hall. “Ollie’s alive!”

 

* * *

 

 

**Queen Consolidated, 23 rd Floor, 10:50 am**

“I wonder what he looks like now.”

“If he looks anything like how he used to… _yum_.”

“Mmm, I know right.”

“If I see him I’m going to ask for a selfie!”

She really shouldn’t be surprised by any of this but…  _are you kidding me right now?_

She’d known. Of course she had.

Rule number 1 in employment in a new city: get to know its local celebrities, its favourite news-lines and events that make the Starling City Journal. Of the many things of her list of new do’s and don’ts in Starling, of taboos and scandals, Oliver Queen stood almost atop of the list in his sheer audacity to neglect his inheritance and remain a playboy. A role figure no parent wanted their kids to look up to.

Mr Queen wasn’t exactly the catch of the day; I mean, if you’re looking for a good time, an easy lay so to say then, yes, he was the PERFECT catch. And he really wasn’t the type you could honestly bring home to introduce to your parents. Before his disappearance, he’d ran with a bad crowd - it wasn’t always Tommy Merlyn and many a time it involved drugs - _because the Glades honestly couldn’t get any worse; way to go helping it get that much fatter off its local commerce in cocaine, LSD and heroin_   _boys._  He stayed out at all hours, neglected his studies, refused the rank his name naturally provided, he lied, he cheated, he stole -  _hearts and virtue but from what I heard, they were freely given_  - and he was definitely the type to never remember a girl’s birthday…

He wasn’t exactly a  _decent_  guy.

_Good._

Yes, it was an odd answer and she wasn’t exactly impressed by his profile but she was all for a little rebelliousness against capitalism and the bourgeoisie… even though she worked for a 500 fortune company (QC happened to be in the top ten 500-large U.S. corporations as ranked by their [gross revenue](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gross_revenue)), but it was the principle of the thing.

So Ollie Queen hadn’t wanted his title? Big deal. There were worst things.

But if you went off tabloid print offs from five, six, seven years previous Ollie Queen, or one of the Queens, and sometimes a Merlyn, filled pages 3 and 4 of almost every edition. It was ridiculous. And wearisome. Though at the time, considering some of the photos taken, the two billionaire joyriders seemed to breathe in the attention like it was oxygen. And if you were talking headliners you just had to make reference to the many, many, fan pages online.

 _And when I say fan sites, I totally mean fan-_ girls _._

There were dozens of them: each college in North America had one, all of them detailing the sexual exploits, rogue details and basic party mania the terrible duo cooked up. In sordid detail. Books could be made, shows run - and some were - even at MIT, which had come as a shock, though she shouldn’t really be at all surprised.

Ollie Queen had left behind many a broken heart. And it showed, exactly where it shouldn’t.

On QC’s 23rd floor.

21st floor’s coffee machine was on the fritz again and Felicity hadn’t the time to fix the thing. Instead, she’d gone upstairs in search of coffee and had found, in the square kitchen with two round tables, 8 chairs, that half the females employed at QC had either met Mr Ollie Queen previously or had heard of him from tales via friend, colleague, roommate etc. _And_ a good chunk of the men working there too had commented, more than once that Ollie Queen’s personal tastes had been open to experimentation. He’d really gotten  _around_.

It was information she neither needed nor required.

What truly stunned her though was the focus of the gossip.

No one, not a soul, had mentioned that this guy had spent five years, **FIVE** , alone. On an island near China. That he was probably so far removed from social propriety that he was more likely to run and hide than party the night away once again. Ollie Queen, regardless of his previous status, never mind that he was a playboy, that he is a billionaire, that he was super cute -  _yes, I said it, thought it, think it, know it_  - probably looked and acted like a cave man right about now. Like Tom Hanks in Cast Away.  _The hospital staff must be having a whale of a time._

She’d been standing there, baffled by the three women sitting huddled by the TV as she drank her coffee, listening to their diatribe.

The one closest to the screen let out a deeply forlorn sigh that Felicity snorted at. “It’s a pity there aren’t any new pictures of him.”  _20 dollars bet that the woman hasn’t even seen him before in her life and she’s already picking out baby names and birthday cards._

“Yeah… you know he posted a pic of his abs once.”

Yep: she’d seen that too. _Swimmer’s build._

“Oh yeah! He was a swimmer in college right?” _There we go._

“Wanna’ to bet that Tommy Merlyn’s gonna’ post a party now that Ollie Queen’s back?”

 _Please._ Rolling her eyes Felicity decided now was the time to vacate the floor, literally, before she caught their neurosis.

 

* * *

 

 

**CNRI, Legal Aid Office**

She didn’t care.

Ollie Queen had returned. So what?

Him being alive didn’t bring Sara back. Didn’t rewind time and fix her parent’s marriage. Didn’t heal her inability to trust. Didn’t mend the hopes and dreams for the future they’d shared and _he’d_ shattered. Didn’t change how difficult life had been for her after the fact. Didn’t take away the knowledge that he’d spent, what she’d believed his last moments on earth to be, screwing her sister. It didn’t matter. Because it was his fault. All of it.

He could rot in hell for all she cared.

And if part of her had been affected at the news, if her heart had raced for just a moment before she snapped off the TV, if it shook her then it didn’t matter. Because _he_ didn’t matter. Her job did. The people she helped did. She hated that everyone at CNRI, the place she knew and was at home in, the job she owned and could control, had seen the newsflash. And had looked at her afterwards. With pity. With curiosity. With judgement. They had no right to judge her. She’d done nothing wrong. Nothing.

 _She_  arbitrated.  _She_  past judgement on the guilty, on those who deserved it.

And Ollie definitely deserved it.

But what was worse was that he was still ‘Ollie’ to her and always would be.

 _No._ Shaking her head, she absolved herself for her lapse and focused on the insect in her current case: Adam Hunt: CEO of Hunt Multinational. A ruthless business man who’d embezzled money from his clients. The man had an army of lawyers and they’d already made a charge of venue, forcing her and Joanna to face Judge Grell. A man whose re-election campaign Adam Hunt had funded, which basically meant that he had the judge in his back pocket.

This too, didn’t matter. She’d win. Justice would prevail.

 

* * *

 

 

**Little bird Supermarket, 17:59pm**

_Permissions, permissions…_

Okay, so she cut work half an hour before schedule.

Gleaming through reams of data concerning monthly takes, cuts and spends at QC hadn’t exactly put Felicity in the mind for her own interests. She’d gotten a decent run with her other priorities the previous night. One night wouldn’t hurt her. And staying extra hours worked up a lot of money in overtime, which she was so incredibly grateful for. Paying off student debts wasn’t fun; sure she’d scored a scholarship but the maintenance loan she’d taken each year at MIT had only just been paid off. _Like, last month_.

You could say her social life is non-existent.

But that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Really, in terms of friendship, if all she got to choose from were the sycophants, sheep, lecturers, gossip mongers and scoundrels who worked at QC then she’d just rather not go out.

Or date.

God, she’d had some truly horrific dates; if she didn’t embarrass herself first she’d managed to, after a solid hour in, find that the men sitting across from her were easily intimidated by higher intelligence. And if they weren’t it was because they were too busy trying to slip their hands up her skirt or they were making eyes at the buxom brunette tending bar. Her last date had been with a medical student who owned an incredibly creepy array of cervical instruments and dental tools, which he named and shelved… in his  _bedroom_.

Inevitably her work was her life.  _So unbelievably sad._

But her _real_ work couldn’t be anything else.

Of course, she also hadn’t eaten much of anything that day –  _Ooh mint chip, mine!_ Her findings had grown more and complex until, eventually, she’d discovered a pattern to the ‘discrepancies’ that Mr Steele had hinted at. Someone had been stealing – embezzling – money from QC each and every time an order for delivery had been sent between 2008 and 2012. And the sums of money were so small and split amongst each requisition that no one had noticed a thing. Except perhaps her boss. A couple of hundred dollars on top of  _this_  bill, a thousand extra on  _that_  order… built up over time the culprit had a sure $30, 000 hidden away somewhere. Finally, he could go to that dream holiday in the Caribbean!

And since each order came out from Ned Stole’s office it was a pretty benign stab in the dark about who was responsible.  _Sloppy Ned, very sloppy. I’m going to have to wait until morning to tell Mr Steele_ ; the report was written and ready for delivery but he’d left QC just after noon and she didn’t relish the idea of disturbing his time with his wife.  _Like getting between a rock and a hard place, Mrs Queen being the rock and Mr Steel the… never mind._

Instead she’d gone in search of fruit; because take out each and every night couldn’t possibly be healthy. Even if it was delicious and wanted.  _Dim Sum. Yum_

Loading her basket with the deep ginger of permissions - her tub of mint chip tucked at the side - she counted three pears and three Fuji apples with some clementine oranges. Little Bird supermarket wasn’t the priciest of places to shop for food but, food was supposed to be eaten, not paid for with a full month’s earnings. The was a kind of joke about the city; a large super named little bird like the was Starling was named, even though the City itself was anything but small. And the reason she liked it so much was that their fresh fruit and vegetables were the sweetest, crispest selections that she’d managed to find.

Swaying to the half assed music coming out of the intercom as she waited at the checkout, she thought about what the next five hours or so would hold for her; home, a bath whilst she pressed and washed her suit, Game of Thrones reruns or a Robin Hood marathon during which she’d augment the parameters of her latest search…

She’d written a program, one releasing Trojans into unsuspected and unfortunately undeveloped systems,  _so painful to see_. This program allowed Felicity to detect  _patterns_. And the latest pattern had left her with the need to  _do_  something about it. Like most of the previous patterns.

There had been a steady rise of fire outbreaks in low income housing within the Glades. Houses and fires were an unfortunate occurrence that happened however frequently or infrequently that they do. But there were three threads to this development that, when she tweaked, suggested suspicious cause. The first was that the only houses affected were situated primarily in the East Glades. The second was that each outbreak had happened within weeks, sometimes days of each other. The third was that each house claimed to own a fire alarm unit.

A repeated excuse kept cropping up on statements:  _the batteries are dead, it’s broken, there’s something wrong with it – but it’s brand new!_

If you’re wondering why Felicity Smoak, IT Technician at QC felt the need to investigate this… well, like she stated: Felicity doesn’t sleep much. And is a computer genius. Filled with boundless curiosity. Gets bored easily and honest to god, she cannot help but lend a hand. Even if that hand held within it secrets that could get her shot on a good day.

She had a clandestine side job that sometimes paid, sometimes didn’t. It was set up online with a transferable bank account that couldn’t be traced back to her. As a hacker, she was in the top five percentile in cyber security and all things computer related and there were many people who could make use of her skills. Through an anonymous site and user ID she’d set up a link that would allow people to discover her and ask for help.

Some of the people asking for  _help_  had been the CIA. That had been a truly scary day.

Her peculiar kind of wanderlust however was what had also started the current Court war involving the CEO of Hunt’s Multinational, Adam Hunt’s, long term embezzlement. Bottom line? He shouldn’t have funnelled so much money as swiftly as he had, going through a secondary account of a more than disreputable bank; one she’d discovered held ties to the mob. Her programme picked it up with a ping faster than you could say ‘felony’. Hundreds of thousands of dollars that Felicity had discovered via infiltrated protocols and the, ahem, _purchase_ of a set of documents hidden on a hard drive  within the heart of the millionaire’s commercial building had started the process that would, hopefully, lead the man to giving back his client’s _and_ his subsidiaries homes and livelihoods. The man was in trouble with some bad people - she’d accidentally discovered and found she couldn’t care less - but thieving from those who already can barely afford to support themselves? Bad move.

She’d slipped the police the information and, like most days/nights was now leaving it in their _sort of_ capable hands. And they’d, well… passed the massive case to CNRI HQ. Not the best idea. Unless they persuaded a truly ballsy and extremely competent lawyer to step forward, who wouldn’t bend at the absolutely genuine threat of death, Adam Hunt’s own merry band of disreputable masterminds were going to pull the prosecution stand to pieces.

This time however - back to the fires - she managed to detect a new pattern in her latest results. Results that she’d gathered data for after hearing about the rising fatalities resulting from the fires. After a weekend of searching she’d exposed a possible, plausible cause:

Holder Corporation, led by CEO James Holder, had installed  _ALL_  of the defective fire alarms. It was too big a coincidence to dismiss. And it really didn’t matter how large of a target this company was; for justice it was worth it. As long as she remained anonymous.

_But why? What reason could he possibly have for giving faulty fire alarms?_

Something else she’d found since moving to Starling: there was a secret current, a subliminal communications network liaising information back and forth from the Glades to the rest of Starling City. To an undiscovered system like Felicity’s brain, it was candy land to try to fathom.

The Glades was like a circular hub, filled with nefarious activity. If you could look it up on a map the basic design made her feel as if someone had  _planned_  the growth, as if a god-sized pair of hands had swept the more visible types of illegal activity into the south-west area of the centre of the city and labelled it: the Glades. Even more eerie than that was the  _invisible_  crime wave - crime committed by the powerful, the environmental crime, political crime and crime which often take place within the domain of work, the marked men and women, the death warrants, the money laundering and embezzlement, the Mafia/Triad/Bratva movements - they were all officiated with or in the ‘safe’ areas of Starling City.

A bit of a shock to discover that Starling was another Gotham City, another Bludhaven.

She had _some_ Intel to prompt a possible lawsuit against James Holder - this she pondered as she drifted from the tills to the automated doors of the supermarket - maybe even an arrest but she needed to be sure that the evidence was sufficient enough to stick. Which meant taking the morning off work tomorrow to go take a look at the Western area of the Glades. She built more than enough flexi-time too so there shouldn’t be a problem there. Afterwards she could deliver, anonymously of course, the full enchilada to a decent Detective: maybe Lance or Hilton who, she found whilst monitoring ‘traffic’, were two of the more honest detectives on the force.

A generous tip.

 _I feel a little antsy though_ , she thought as she chewed on her lip, the keys to her car in her grasp,  _Mr Steele has a meeting in the morning. Ned’s assistant to the officiator in the-_

The meeting. Tomorrow  _morning_.

The one that Mr Stole had been working on all afternoon -  _he might be a thief but he’s a committed haggler too_  - and had left his paperwork in his office. Before leaving. Knowing that Mr Steele would need to see them at  _least_  30 minutes before the meeting so that he wouldn’t look like a fool in front of the investors.  _Not that he’d get those 30 minutes considering the meeting is at 08:30am and Ned never gets in before 8:15!!!_

It was none of her business. None at all. _Nope_.

But she slumped, head resting on the steering wheel when she realised she’d already opened her car door, put the groceries on the seat next to her and placed the car into ignition as she mentally plotted the fastest route to QC.

“…I am  _much_  too committed to my job. I must be. Or something.”  _Maybe._

She stepped on the gas.

 

* * *

 

 

**Queen Estate, Queen Mansion**

The Estate felt haunted. By the past, by memories or by ghosts, which she truly believed did exist, Felicity wasn’t sure.

But it was a little sinister.

Ducking her head to peek  _up_  - the mansion was that tall - at the house Felicity let out a breath, whispering to herself. “What am I doing here?” The heavens had opened up on her way back to QC and now the rain resembled more of a pour than a patter. So she couldn’t be certain that the gloomy atmosphere was a result of said weather or simply… the  _dominance_  factor. Because this was her  _boss_.

She was visiting Walter Steele’s house, in the evening, in the  _rain_  so she was sure to look hideous since there was a pretty huge walking space between her car and the massive front doors -  _doors, there’s more than one front door_  - and she didn’t have an umbrella, to hand him papers her supervisor should have presented him with hours ago…  _and he’s probably sitting at dinner right about now. Which means I’ve got to interrupt him and the words ‘never take your work home’ sounds like brilliant advice suddenly- no! I will not interrupt his eating. His eating? Who says that? Apparently I do - I’m just going to pass it to whoever opens the doors and if it is Mr Steele then he’s going to forever have the mental picture of me standing on his porch looking like a sewer rat and handing him tomorrow’s notes, because I just_ can’t _get enough of my job. God, I’m like the cautionary tale to hard workers everywhere…_

“He’s Mr Steele! Why couldn’t he just remember he had papers he needed to see?”

Driving into the Queen Grounds was like visiting a member of the royal family in England. Because they were rich, grandiose and important, she  _immediately_  felt as small and as unwelcome as humanely possible. “Like an ant under a microscope…”

‘Queen’ in every sense of the term.

Turning off the gas she desperately wanted to stare up at the main -  _because, wow, there was more than one building_  - house some more, or at least until she got her legs under her but when she’d stopped at the gate -  _of course there was a gate -_ she’d had to explain via the intercom - babbling as usual, who she was here to see and why:

 _“Er, I’m here to deliver some papers for Mr Steele?”_ It had come out like a question as she’d leaned out of her car window, because apparently proximity increased the unlikely chance that she’d be understood.  _“N-no please don’t disturb Mr Steele from the dinner he’s probably only just sat down to- no there was just a bit of a mess up at the office today. Mr Steele needs these papers for a meeting he has with QC’s investors in the morning. You want me to drive up but only until the secondary gates? O-okay.”_

The secondary gates. Seriously. They wanted her to park her car at what looked like 100 metres away from the house.  _Why, so that I can’t make a quick getaway?_

She’d been here before,  _not outside the Queen Mansion,_ she mentally floundered,  _no I’ve never been_ here, _here._ But she’d been in this place before. This position. Trying to help.

Her reward?

Black.

Dark.

Cold.

Unnatural.

_Me._

She shook herself… _here we go._

Stuffing the file covered papers inside her coat Felicity opened the car door, cold water immediately spitting against her legs and shoes. She shivered in distaste and groaned,  _I’m going to get soaked,_  before making a mad dash out towards the sheltered stairs and checked herself, making a devastated noise at her appearance: seconds or so of pouring rain and she was soaking. Her hands and hair were dripping, water droplets fell from her glasses and chin and the collar front of her pale pink shirt was a different colour altogether now.  _I am the very image of a serious employee. Ugh. Typical._

‘Wet for my boss’ took on a whole new meaning where Felicity Smoak was concerned. 

Sighing, there wasn’t anything she could do, she turned and swallowed. The front doors loomed before her; a brass knocker on each side.  _Do I tap it, slam those knockers down or rap with my knuckles until they bleed?_ In a house this big there was no way they’d hear. But she didn’t actually want the whole house to know she was there. In and out. Quick and effective. Give it to him and leave just as fast….

She closed her eyes.  _God why is everything in my head a minefield of sexual innuendo?_

The low light of the porch was soothing in its unnatural warmth as it seeped from the small windows above each door. Carefully she lifted one heavy handle and lightly knocked it against the wood once, twice, three times. Almost immediately the curved door handle was being pulled down by someone,  _please don’t be Mr Steele, please don’t be Mr Steele_ …

A petit woman - with beautifully kind, crystal blue eyes - stood through the opening she’d created. She wore a nondescript pale blue maid’s uniform and pinafore. So totally removed from what Felicity had expected to see she stared at eyes already prompting her with soft nudges to speak. “Yes?”

“O-oh…” She sniffed, licking a water droplet from her top lip. “I spoke to someone on the way in? I have-” Her hand shot inside her coat to present the file. “I have Mr Steele’s papers for his meeting in the morning.”  _Seriously, why hadn’t he remembered them?_

The kind faced woman with raven hair blinked at them. “He forgot them?”  _Apparently._

It was truly difficult for Felicity to prevent herself from being distracted by the woman’s obvious Russian accent because,  _wow: who spoke Russian in Starling?_ “No, no he didn’t.”  _He_ so _did_. “It wasn’t his fault! My supervisor, he’s,”  _a tool_ , “forgetful?”  _Why am I asking her?_  The woman looked nonplussed. “Mr Steele really does need to see them before tomorrow morning.” Not accounting for the fact that Felicity’s own report was studiously hidden amongst the pages.

The door opened further and the woman stepped back. “Of course; please come in.”

Felicity hopped over the threshold and into the foyer. “Oh thank you, I-” Come in? As in drip all over everything, and ‘everything’ probably consisted of very expensive pieces of furniture and ornate adornments.

She whirled around to see the door already being closed behind her. The woman peered with some concern at the deer in the headlights look.

 _Um._ “I’m dripping.”

“It will be fine; this rug has weathered more than rain water in the past.” With another kind smile the woman moved away. “I will inform Ivan, our butler and he will collect those papers from you. I’m afraid I know very little about business at Queen Consolidated.”

 _So I’ll just stand here on this rug. Awesome_.  _Pretty sure a Harvard education isn’t required for passing on a few papers_  “I-I’m Felicity.” It just tumbled out, those sympathetic eyes and that melodic voice calling for it. “That’s me. Er, my name. Felicity Smoak.” Self-consciously she nudged her sodden spectacles up her nose. “Hi.” Then she waved like a loon, her coat sleeve covering most of her hand so only the tips of her fingers were visible.

_Oh my God._

Felicity knew from past experience that at best, this woman was surprised by the wet, babbling loser darkening her doorstep but Felicity didn’t look to check. Head bowed, it was surprising when she felt the slightly wrinkled warmth of a hand in her damp one.

“My name is Raisa.”

 _So… Raisa. Right._ The woman was already walking down the hallway. Were they were just going to leave her there without security? Maybe that was why they made her park her car so far away.

Blinking a little dementedly, Felicity took a breath, brushing some of the wet hair plastered to her cheek aside - she didn’t even want to think about what her ponytail looked like - and took a quick look about her.

 _So this is the legendary Queen Mansion_ , she thought; heart racing in her chest like a teenager about to get caught stealing test answers,  _where many a party was held._ This was true, at least according to scores of men and women online. Warm wooden panelling and flooring were the most obvious.

A streak of Lightning flashed, coating her surroundings with a trick of platinum blue, making her think of phantoms and poltergeists. Then the sound of rain falling was all she could hear.

 _It’s so quiet here._ Her eyes rolled.  _Of course it’s quiet; they’re at dinner. Somewhere I really should be too if I don’t want to wake up cranky._

But her gaze fell on the table not five feet in front of her and she stilled at the frames there. The memories shown. And they were as loud as a scream.

Across the surface of the small, circular, antique table were pictures of Mr Robert Queen and his son, Mr Oliver Queen. In some of the pictures they were joined by Mrs Queen and, who she guessed to be, Miss Thea Queen. One or two held shots of the ‘Queen’s Gambit.  _How sad_. Lamentations; a creepy memorial to the dead. This way no one, not a family member, friend, relation or acquaintance could ever forget the past.

And for a sick second she had the urge to just move it. All of it. Move it far away from the foyer so that the first thing seen by Oliver Queen wouldn’t be a constant, instant reminder of the horror he’d been forced to live through. Even though he was a stranger to her, even if all he did in the past five years was eat coconuts and sun bathe, the knowledge that he may never see any of his love ones again would be enough to drive most insane. And if not insane, in need of severe therapy and a bottle or a 1000 of Mr Jack D.

She knew, if it was her, that she wouldn’t want the reminder.

Trying to ignore the fact that being in the Queen mansion was making her feel increasingly jittery, several plops of rain water fell on the floor from her coat. Her eyes shut: she was an awkward nerd who couldn’t be graceful if her life depended on it.

A quick glance to the floor showed her that her feet had left a very soggy imprint in the lush carpet.  _Frack!_

Then she remembered.  _Tissues!_  She had some in her coat pocket.  _Anything_  to help her not look like a misshapen vegetable, a wet rat, or dishevelled banshee. Shoving the file underneath an armpit, she turned from the stairs and faced the front door to wipe her nose with impunity.  Hand delving into her pocket she grabbed the first object in there, her red pen, trapped it between her teeth, before diving right back in there-

-There was a very low, very quiet shift in the air: the slight rustle of fabric. Barely detectable. But Felicity’s ears were incredibly sharp. Twitching, her head jerked up, around.  _Is it Ivan?_ She squinted through the fog of on her lenses…

And almost dropped her file. Almost dropped _everything._

And stared.

At him.

Emerging from that shadowed place near the corner of the entrance hall, his slow steps didn’t make a sound and he took four to clear the staircase. Her mouth opened slowly and somehow her pen stayed well and truly in there. _Did they even make humans like that?_

And then the specimen of perfection spoke and she was lost.

“Who are you?”

A shiver of  _something_  shot through her.  _Okay, that is_ so _not fair._ Just three words but… 

His voice was like liquid sex. 

Not. A. Joke.

It was definitely that, but it was also  _soft_. Soft in a deeply masculine way that made ‘soft’ sound ‘strong’, sound  _necessary_. It was smooth too. Slightly rough.

She was about to answer when lightning flashed once again, fully revealing the face of the beguiling voice-

-Her eyes met with a wolf’s.

The storm changed them from obscure azure irises to ice blue as they fixed on her face; pupils large and dark in the storm’s natural light. And there was something to the way he was simply  _looking_  at her, because that’s all he was doing: looking. But it was also in his stance, in the way he held himself: his posture would have made a Tibetan Monk cry. Straight backed, broad – very broad – shoulders in alignment with his feet, fingers slightly furled into his palms, legs lean and taught… she took a long breath and it rattled with nerves.

He was a predator. 

And then just like that, because nerves and anxiety equalled talking/babbling Smoak, Felicity spoke - fast. “Felicity Queen.”  _MAJOR FRACK!_  “Smoak! Felicity Smoak, my name is  _Felicity Smoak_!” She blamed her surroundings utterly and completely.

But he didn’t react. At all. Except to blink.  _Once_. He was still, like a machine. “Do you… know my family? Are you a friend?”

There was a tiny note of hesitance in his tone that came with unfamiliarity, but he’d said… family.

The memory of a photo on a desk shortly after she’d started working at QC. Foppish, dirty blonde hair falling over vain blue eyes, faultless skin and a jawline to match his slim build, the arrogant expression that spoke money, and talent making him a general shot of life.

She hesitated, hand coming up in a series of jerks before pulling off her glasses. Covered in water as they were, she never really needed them anyway. Before they even came down from her face, she knew but-

_That kind of change should be impossible._

He stood there reeking masculinity and awareness; hair cut short, almost to the scalp, he wore that pale blue sweater over a buttoned up shirt and a pair of jeans that, if she stuck a penny in the back pocket of, she could tell which side it was up. They were tight. He wore them  _perfectly_. 

Her eyes briefly flickered back to them when he moved forwards another step, slowly once again like a skulking wolf; the fabric shifting very,  _um_ , well, with him. He had the audacity to look unfairly amazing when _she_ was looking like she’d lost a fight with a rain cloud. _So_  amazing that she was staring at him like some zoo attraction but,  _hadn’t he just spent five years on an island?_

He wasn’t supposed to look like that. He was supposed to look like… like he’d spent five years being slowly malnourished, being weathered by the cold, by an alien sun and monsoons, being eaten by foreign insects, being alone and forgotten…

Yet, physically, he was an Adonis.

And it just came out,  _loudly_. “You’re Oliver Queen.”

His brow moved slightly. “I know I am.”

There was this aura of complete control about his person. A control that should have unnerved her: he was a stranger, someone who had every right to be insane and happy about it. But instead, she just felt relief. His behaviour  _was_  a reaction. The way he moved was a development; a  _real_  sign that he’d been through his own personal hell. It was proof that he was scarred.

But realising all this did nothing to escape the fact that she was making an ass out of herself. “I-I know who you are!” She smiled like the little frustrated nerd she was as a drop of water slipped down her cleavage. “You’re Mr Queen.”  _Of course he knows who he is! And in case he doesn’t, I just told him!_

Lost in her own head she swallowed when she saw he was already closer. A hand in one jean pocket –  _women would kill to be that hand_  – the other placed what looked like a pear on that circular table. He stood side on, completely dismissing her for a moment but this way she could watch the display of muscle underneath two layers; something in his frame making her think that he was incredibly well built, more so than others might expect. She could watch as those eyes of his took in the pictures and she remembered wanting to remove them, realising they really had been the first thing he’d seen.

Blue eyes flashed back to hers. “’Mr Queen’ was my father.” He took a breath, facing her fully. “I’d prefer not to be called that.”

She nodded quickly. “Of course, since he’s dead.”

_And I’m fired._

_God why? Why did you grant me a vocal cord, words to utter and a mouth to speak them with?_

“I mean he drowned!” He wasn’t moving, just staring at her. “But  _you_  didn’t.” His slightly widened eyes -  _oh frack_  - taking in every inch of her face as she floundered, hoping the ground beneath her would swallow her whole. “Which was why you could be here right now…” She took a shaky breath. “Listening to me babble.” Then swallowed again, turning to the sounds of steps coming from down the hall. “Which will end, like my dignity.” She closed her eyes. “In three, two, one.”

She counted a breath, then two before bravely taking a peek at him.

There was this tiny, tiny thing on his face that she almost couldn’t call a smile. It was small, barely there but it did something brilliant to his eyes that made something deep down lighten. The rest of his face wasn’t giving her anything but it was still there.  _Thank god_. She bit her lip.

“Miss Smoak?”

 _And there’s that._ Striding into view was a middle aged man with a long nose and an extremely unreceptive venire who looked her over before stopping and sighted on Oliver Queen. “Good evening sir.”

“Hey Ivan.” And something happened to his face; a shift that boggled her brain. The unaffected expression he’d been sporting earlier and that smile slipped and a lighter look emerged.

Felicity stared.

It was totally fake. His eyes were  _lifeless_. Flat. Maybe she could see it because he’d just given her a hint of what real life looked like in his eyes but the transition was a shock.

But then ‘Ivan’ put his attention back on her again and she was forced to look away. “Mr Steele is currently in the middle of dinner; you’ll have to wait until he’s finished.” 

The way he said it…

Her head was already shaking - she would _not_ look at Mr Queen - but a shot of embarrassment went through her regardless.  _It isn’t like I’m doing this for myself._ “No, I really don’t want to interrupt Mr Steele.”  _Didn’t they already know this? I don’t even want to be here right now._ “I’d prefer it if I could just leave this for him to look over later.” She almost forced the file into Mr Ivan’s surprised hands. “That way I don’t have to keep dripping on your very nice carpet.”

The look Ivan gave her - seeing the state of said flooring - made her want to curl up and die. Just a little. It made her  _talk_. “Well if you hadn’t made me park just outside the gate then maybe I wouldn’t be offending you with my presence.” She shrugged, ignoring the set of alarms blasting in her head at the fact that she was insulting the Queen family staff,  _directly_  in front of the Queen heir. “But you  _did_  and I  _am_  and now there’s nothing we can do about it.” She pointed a soggy finger at the file; Mr Ivan’s mouth was open in shock. “He needs to see that: it’s important. He has a meeting in the morning: those notes are essential.”

Clearing her throat, her nerves getting to her again now that she’d spoken her mind, she glanced at plus six feet of awesome in her peripheral to find him openly watching her. There was no derision there. No judgement. Honestly, it was like he was trying to make her out.

She made a fumbled attempt at a goodbye, offering him a hand before snatching it _way_ back: she’d forgotten that she was still very much wet. “I-I’ll just be…” Her hands did something that was supposed to be a gesture at the front doors but ended up making her look like she was juggling an invisible set of balls,  _oh God_. “…Going now.”

She turned, walking fast; hands reaching the brass handles in moments. In less than an hour she’d be curled up on her sofa with her mint chip, ready to forget all about this.  _Until tomorrow anyway_. When she’d relieve every second.

Stepping outside, she gazed into the thunder storm beyond the canopy. The weather had gotten worse; great puddles of water already filling the slight nooks on the pavement.

 _Oh good._ Just what she needed.  _Joyous._ Her good deed was done for night and this was her reward. She’d say it couldn’t get any worse but, speaking from experience, she knew it really could. Looking morosely at the black sky she muttered to herself. “I should have worn different shoes…”

“Are you going home?”

She jumped nearly out of her skin. “Whoa!”

Quiet.  _So quiet_.

Twisting around she staggered back, stumbling right into the rain and wind. He’d been so silent. Eyes flying up the stone steps she saw him, leaning with one foot in and one foot out of the doorway, watching her wobble. “Mr Queen!”

“Miss Smoak.” He turned from her, closing the doors, then he proceeded to saunter towards her down the stairs.

 _Buh…_ She belatedly noticed that he was wearing his coat.  _What’s going on?_

Planting himself on the last step he said. “I was wondering if you were going home.” Straight-backed, looking so much taller than he had in doors, his blue eyes flickered from her hair to her heeled shoes that were now completely freezing, hunched shoulders from the downpour and squinty eyes behind her glasses. Oddly, it had him moving out from under the cover of a brick archway. “ _Or_  if you were open to alternatives.” He stilled about two feet away from her.

She blinked at him.

“Would you mind stopping somewhere along the way?” He said, totally unruffled by her slack jaw and getting wetter by the second.

 _401 error. Brain does not compute._ “What-” She shook her head to clear it. “Are you asking for a ride? You realise you’re getting soaked?” She pointed behind him. “You should get out of the rain.” _Mr Returnee from a deserted island who will get me the sack if he so much as gets a cold on the first night after his return_.

But he stood there as if it didn’t even bother him. “I’m fine and only If you have the time.” Ignoring her brilliant open mouthed fish impersonation he glanced over her head. “Your car’s down there? I don’t know why Ivan told you to keep it there.”

“Probably because I don’t come with a title attached.” Trying to catch up, it came out a brashly spoken truth and her mouth snapped shut when his eyes caught hers again. “Not that I mind getting soaked. I like to get wet.” She flinched. “I mean wetter than usual.”  _Not again._ “Not that I’m always wet; I’m usually pretty dry- because of the _weather_! Contrary to the meteorological conditions shown on the news it does not rain 24/7 in Starling City.”  _Mostly._

His lips pressed together.

 _Ugh_. Strike one with her verbal incontinence. _Like he doesn’t know the kind of weather Starling gets. 5 years isn’t a lifetime._

“I know what you meant. And I’m sorry for the way Ivan spoke to you just now.”

“I-it’s fine.” Oliver Queen: completely overwhelming. The fact that he was worried, even a little, floored her. “Really.”

He didn’t say anything. Nodding, he just looked at her, waiting. A breathless laugh left her. It was ridiculous. They were just standing there, getting drenched but not moving.  _Oh come on, how bad could it be?_

Mind made up she hopped, slipping off a shoe, then the other; grimacing when her feet sank back down into a couple of centimetres of water.

She caught his frown, peering up at him as he said, “What are you-”

She shook her shoes at him. “I can’t run in these.” Then, turning, she made the same mad dash towards her car that she did earlier. “Come on!”

Water splashed at her legs but it didn’t matter; they were already soaked. Her feet were freezing but she felt, just for a moment, like a kid skipping merrily down the lane. Smiling, she didn’t look back to see if he’d followed. He might have decided to  _not_  go with the crazy lady making a footless sprint towards her car. The gate opened automatically, which was great really,  _I mean making a jump over that metal trap in this skirt?_  

Running around her red Toyota, she reached for the handle, looking up-

He wasn’t there.

He hadn’t followed.

 _Oh…_  Did she actually felt a little disappointed? Maybe malnutrition really had gotten to him, though those impressive thighs would tell otherwise. She yelled out. “Mr Queen?”

“Side or back?”

 _Geez!_ She whirled and there he was, _right_ behind her.

“Passenger side!” She shouted reactively. Biting the inside of her cheek, she cut short an absurd urge to laugh.

He shouted to be heard over the thunder. “Do you normally run without shoes in the rain?”

“Actually, yes! Do you normally creep up on women at night as they’re getting into their cars?”

“Depends on what day it is.” He replied, his tone indolent, ignoring the fact that he hadn’t been near civilisation for the past five years.

She shook her head, rainwater flying everywhere. “Get into the car Mr Queen.”

“Thought I told you not to call me that!” He shouted over the din as he moved to the other side of the vehicle.

She pulled at a handle, eyes shooting to him, to the car, the ground, the mansion - _everywhere_. “So… Oliver, then?”

He paused mid-entry and met her eyes; she couldn’t see through the glass there. “Yes.” He was so quiet she barely heard it over the water hitting the car. “Oliver.”

 _Right. Oliver. Oliver Queen. O-l-i-v-e-r._ Slipping inside, she slammed the door shut; sighing. “Oliver.”

Said person turned her way, the bag of fruit he must have lifted before sitting bustling as he moved. His eyes asked the question.

“Just trying it out again.”  _Because I just can’t help what comes out of my mouth. And because it’s so much better than ‘Ollie’._ She grasped a throw from the back seat, passing it to him. “You’re soaked.”

He took it. “So are you.”

“Ah, but I’m driving.” She put the car in reverse and they,  _finally_ , pulled out of the drive.

What was so very strange however, as the looming mansion turned small in the rear view mirror (she tried to avoid looking at herself there because she was undoubtedly hideous right now), _Oliver_ seemed to lose some of the tension in his shoulders that she hadn’t even known was present. She heard him take a slow, deep breath but he still sat straight-backed; almost militaristic with his cool gaze aimed at the interior of her car. The very empty interior; it was pristine, hiding its old-ish age and without any adornments one might normally expect in the car of a woman who traditionally wore bright colours and lipstick.  

This was a man she’d only just met, a man who’d only yesterday returned from a five year stretch in the China seas, a man she _wouldn’t_ have met if a moment of loyalty hadn’t forced her to confront the Queen Mansion in all its intimidating glory… a man who shouldn’t seem so… normal.

And she was just going to drive away with him?  _When did that ever happen in real life?_ _Then again, since when is my life a normal one?_

Something felt different tonight. She knew: it was in that whisper of a thrill where things previously normal and known - however bizarre her 'normal' and 'known' may be - changed to the ‘new’. The ‘unknown’. The ‘ _right’_. And the ‘wanted’.

Or maybe, she was just giving a man a lift.

 


	3. 'Glades' as Irony

 

_I should have thought this through…_

It was so silent in the car.

She briefly considered thrumming her fingers against the steering wheel but it immediately squashed. She didn't want to show him that she was rattled. She totally was, because it had just hit her, what they were doing. He'd only _just_ returned home and here she was, basically kidnapping him.  _Well not really; not with him being so persistent with his eyes and his skin and… him_.

The idea of putting on music seemed like a bad idea: who has music on an island? _He probably doesn’t even know how to work a smartphone. Poor guy._

She took a deep breath, her car flying down an almost empty road. The sound of rain hitting the car was usually one of the most soothing sounds she’d ever heard. She may not like getting wet, may not like the rain too much in itself, but the noise it made was one that normally soothed her.  _Normally_.

And it was all his fault.

It was as if the silence soothed him.

Oliver Queen didn't talk, didn't offer any kind of conversational branch to grab onto with both mind and mouth, _no_ , instead he fixed his gaze out of the windows. He looked  _completely_  at ease in her very humble car, giving no indication that this whole experience was awkward as hell: but there was something about his physique, about the way he held himself, that reminded her of a caged animal. Again, a captive wolf. There was no aura of 'come near me and you'll regret it' or anything. It was just…  _something_.

Like his guard, which felt perpetually raised. Or his eyes that scoped everything in his path.

Occasionally he'd look at her too; a flicker of blue she barely glimpsed before they were elsewhere once more. He really wasn't at all what she expected to find in a man just returned from the dead. There was already a list:

He appeared to be a gentleman. Physically, the word beautiful didn't do him justice. There was a _quietness_ to him and a lethality that leaned close to _scary guy_ status. He reeked testosterone but managed to do something useful with it instead of throwing it everywhere. And he looked supremely unfeeling about the world around him. He was all this at first sight.

_Did I mention he was also odd as hell? Because, really, he wants to go where?_

"The  _Glades_?"

"Yes."

Her eyes flickered to and from the road ahead of her and his stoic face. "You want me to take you to the Glades?"

"Yes." He didn't bat an eyelid.

 _He comes back from a five year stint on a deserted island and the first thing he wants to do is take a merry skip down serial killer highway?_ Mouth opening, closing, she swallowed and nodded –  _there must be something wrong with me too_. "Um, alright. Let's do that."

For several seconds he watched her. "Just like that."

 _Apparently._ "Er, yes?"

There was a moment of silence.

"…Okay."

He let out a deep exhale with that one, quiet word. A breath that spoke sentences, hidden meanings she couldn't grasp at. It threw her but the way he suddenly settled further into the seat made her think she'd said the right thing.

Mollified, though she had no idea what she needed to be placated about anyway, she nodded. "Okay. You know you," catching his eyes again her words stuttered to a halt –  _he really is intense_  – and had to swallow before trying again,  _geez,_ "you don't have to hold onto the bag; just throw it in the back." Remembering something she added. "But you can have some of the fruit if you want! You were holding a pear in there right? I can only imagine the kind of diet you've been on in the past five years; fruit is probably the closest approximation to what you might have been used… to…"

Already looking at her, eyes like ice didn't blink – not the whole time she'd been babbling.

_Did I seriously just bring that up? What it wrong with me? Like he wants to be reminded of THAT. He's been in the City for a day. A DAY Felicity. I should just pull over and find some place to go die already. I wouldn't be surprised if he actually tried to get out of the car while I'm driving-_

"Fruits. Plants. It was the taste more than anything. Bitter, bland." Voice very matter of fact, Oliver fished a pear out of the bag, brushing a thumb over its sandy hide. "Very cold."

"I-I didn't mean to-"

He bit into it, studying the pear as he slowly chewed before swallowing. Everything he'd done so far was a careful, precise action. "It's ripe."

 _And ripe means good?_ By the remote look on his face it could have meant anything. "Oh, y-yeah I…"

"Thank you."

 _Oh thank god_. "I spend a lot of time making sure I get the best.” _Like he cares, but you know, babble away._ “Persimmons are my favourites. It's the colour: greens and oranges. Nature and sunsets. There's this store down on Amellton…"

And on she prattled, nervously diverging from one topic to another. It didn't matter that he barely said five words through it all; he seemed comfortable just listening.

Learning.

Whether she saw it or not she was effectively telling him small 'to-knows' about the city without him having to ask. Re-introducing him to Starling.

 

* * *

 

 

**Queen Mansion**

Preoccupied, he spoke without fully meaning to. "It's strange."

"What is?" Wine glass in hand Moira looked at him when he didn't immediately answer. "Walter?"

He couldn't explain it. "This… sudden interest he has in the company." But really, how sudden could it be when they hadn't spoken to the man in five years? "In the past, he never showed any inclination towards Queen Consolidated. Yet it's the first thing he wants to do now that he's back…"

His frown, his apprehensive tone was lost on Moira Queen. "Maybe he craves normalcy."

"Exactly. When has taking an interest in the company ever been normal for Oliver?"

A good question, but one that was dismissed. "I want my son to reclaim his life as soon as possible. Have the lawyers here tomorrow." She said, effectively ending the discussion.

Nothing but the best for her son. Her beautiful boy. Returning against all odds. And he still was, but…

What she didn't mention to Walter was how much her son had unnerved her tonight, sitting across from her at the opposite end of the dining room table.

For a moment, the man she'd looked at wasn't someone she recognised; he wasn't the playful, coquettish boy she remembered. The cool blue gaze had been foreign and his unblinking stare intrusive.  _He'd been so still, hadn't slouched and didn't lean like he use to_ … the things she most remembered about her son stole past her eyes and this new face didn't appear amongst the images. Where had her special boy gone? Where was his charming smile and youthful haircut, hair that now resembled military functioning? Why wasn't he asking for Laurel? Why did he suddenly seem so much taller than before? She didn't understand. And realised that maybe she didn't want to.

…Because then his gaze had softened and _Ollie_ resurfaced. He was still in there. Just a little confused about his place in the world now. And she would remind him of it, to stay. Oliver Queen had returned home, the heir apparent who would one day stand where Robert had been. A piece of her life had been returned to her.

They had all lost so much; she didn't want to think about it anymore. Seeing Oliver again forced her to realise how much she pushed herself to _not_  remember. And in the hospital the previous night her son had held her, had kept her standing for a long time before the doctor had stated he'd needed rest.

But Moira had missed the tension in his shoulders, the fact that he hadn't truly smiled, not once.

Instead she considered that maybe now she could really have it all. To have her children, both of them, safe from harm, safe from  _him_ , once and for all. All it would take was a little extra time, some more effort; collateral damage was inevitable, but it was a form of destruction she'd already come to terms with a long time ago… it was payable. Regardless of the lives involved.

 

* * *

 

 

**The Glades, Old Manufacturer's District**

What was once the main manufacturer's district in Starling was now a dead end; a home for drug users and the vagrants of the city.

And right in the centre of what had been decreed by many to be a cesspool, was Queen's Industrial Shipping Factory: huge, run down, damp, dirty and haunted by memories the label was written in bold, peeling paint across the back side of the building. A building that stood miserable and decrepit, depicting well the tale of depression the Glades had suffered through in the past decade. It stood silently behind a large bolted, wire fence and gate.

She remembered reading about it online:  **'Queen's Industrial Shipping Factory closed down – the final death blow for the Glades. Is there any hope left?'**  The papers had screamed about its closure, a cessation that occurred,  _coincidentally_ , just a few weeks before Robert Queen had left on the Queen's Gambit, never to return.

And now his son was sitting in Felicity Smoak's car, staring at the forlorn structure, face hidden from her eyes.

"This is the place, right?" She had no doubt that it was but he was being even more silent now than before, if that was at all possible.

He didn't reply - _shocker_ \- and she could see his breath fog up the windscreen in front of his face. Looking out past the still heavily pouring rain, she pulled in a breath. "It looks really… depressing."

He turned to look at her and she was again reminded how very predacious he seemed. How still. It should have troubled her, scared her even. But it didn't.

When he suddenly  _moved_ , stepping out of the car and into the rain, Felicity scrambled after him. "Oliver?" Slamming her door, she made her way round to him as stood, peering at the factory. There was virtually no one else around.

"So I was wondering…" He started saying and gestured ahead as she squinted (rain) at him. "How well would you react if I jumped the fence and took a look inside?"

 _What?_  "Why?"

"For… posterity."

Eyebrow cocked, voice raised over the rain, she gave him an even look. "You mean how well I'd react if my boss's son jumped a three metre tall fence to get into an abandoned factory with God knows what lurking in the corners? Knowing that, if you did get hurt, your mother would find out?  _After_  discovering, of course, that I am the person who drove you here in the first place? The person who, despite what her brain and pay check is telling her, will inevitably  _not_  take you home until you actually _want_ to go?"

He had the audacity to nod, rain water trailing down his face. "That's what I thought."

Completely out of her comfort zone, she shook her head. "That's what you thought? Wait, what are you-"

In between words, he sprinted over to the fence and, using some crates catching wood rot as spring boards, he hurdled to the top, gripping metal tightly as he wound his body over the rim before dropping gracefully down to the other side.

_Motherfu-!_

This was the _last_ thing she'd expected to have to deal with.  _Did he spend his time on the island swinging through trees like a jungle gym? And this is soooo not what I should be focused on._

She rushed forwards, shouting at him like she'd known him for years instead of minutes as he straightened up. "Oliver Queen, are you trying to get me fired?! I mean you could have at least told me what you were about to do before you hurdled the giant tetanus shot just waiting to happen!"

Genuinely smiling, though it was still quite a small thing, at her hand-on-hips tone, he looked, once again, supremely unaffected by, well, everything. "Wait for me. I'll be back in a minute."

"As if I'd leave now." She muttered, looking at him through the fence holes. "And I can't come with you because…?"

Oddly, he did a double take at the question and frowned at her as the rain poured down between them. His eyes searched for something but she didn't understand what it was.

Then, with a strange little carefree motion his head swerved slightly to his left. "If you can actually get over the fence in that skirt, you're welcome to join me." She blushed and though she could barely see his features in the rain filled dark, something about the tone of his voice made her think he was _daring_ her. "You should get back in the car." Hopping back, he jogged into the recesses of the factory. "I won't be long!"

Pursing her lips she stood there, feeling foolish.

_You should get back in the car._

Right.

The car.

Hesitating -  _for god sakes! -_ she ran back to her beloved Toyota.  _Well this is going super. It's his first day back; what if he gets hurt in there? The place is old, dark and a mess; it's a recipe for disaster._ She closed her eyes against her thoughts, but it didn't quell the whisper in her ear; the one she desperately tried to ignore and normally succeeded. On a daily basis.

Except for today it seemed.

_Oliver Queen. Everything about him. The old Queen factory in the Glades, left for dead for five years; it would never be a home for 30, 000 employees again. His father had barely stepped foot in the place before leaving so being a memento of the elder Queen was very much out of the question… so why now? What was so important about this place?_

_Stay in the car._

Her eyes opened, taking in the closed up shops and barred windows that hadn't been touched in years. As shuttered and shielded as those blues eyes she kept seeing when she closed her own.

She couldn't stand mysteries. She'd built her life around solving them. This was far too interesting to just… wait out. "Frack it all."

_And here I thought all I'd be doing tonight was eating ice cream and watching Netflix._

 

* * *

 

**Queen's Industrial Shipping Factory**

She had wire cutters.  _A fact Mr Queen would have known if he'd just waited a moment._

She kept the gap in the wire fence as closed and as near to the brick wall as humanely possible and the cuts severely neat.  _It isn't exactly my first rodeo._ At a glance it would pass judgement. She'd pinch them back together later. Slipping through, she trotted the same path she’d watched his run over.

Problem. There was more than one door. And by more than one door she meant more than one building. There was a way in on two sides of the main building, a huge access point at the front of the dead factory and a traditional roller door. She figured he hadn't gone that way. There were a set of stairs as well that led to a more than intimidating structure that she wasn't altogether thrilled about exploring in her skirt. Opting to dodge around the graffiti covered walls and garbage, Felicity ducked around a corner and found a set of shattered slates in a heap on the ground. Like someone had kicked them in and away from the now very clear, very fragile looking wooden door swinging on its hinges. There was no lock and the handle was non-existent.

 _Okay then._  Stepping out of the rain she half hopped, half stumbled into the interior r and wished very much that she wasn't wearing soaked glasses.

"Is this the part where the big axe wielding psychopath comes out of the dark with a hockey mask and tries to kill me? The big axe wielding psycho being Oliver Queen and me being, well, me."

The place was  _huge_ ; as big inside as it was outside. Cavernous, every movement she made sparked the smallest sounds that echoed in the hollow, dank environment. There were gaps in the walls and in some places, no walls existed at all; she could see the rain fall through them. _So many places to hide and go seek_ , if she were even remotely inclined to do so. Plenty of nooks and crannies, holes and hallways that she could get lost in…

She couldn't see him in the open space before her. A few steps in, her eyes quickly growing accustomed to the lack of light-

And of course  _that's_  when her phone starts to ring shrilly.

Hands fumbling in her pocket, her fingers pulling out her Catastrophe phone cover (seriously, with cats and everything) she mushed it to her ear and _whispered_. "Hello?"

" _Miss Smoak?"_

The distinguished voice on the other end of the line could hardly be misplaced.

She closed her eyes. "Mr Steel?"

" _Felicity, you don't happen to have Oliver with you by any chance?"_

 _Frack it to death!_ "Er… there's really no good way for me to answer that question is there sir?" She wondered for a moment how he even had her number before remembering that he had access to all his employees' personal data, including the number of the 'Catastrophe' mobile carrying idiot.

" _Felicity."_

"Yes sir; he's here." She eyed her surroundings with a frown. "Somewhere."

" _I'm sorry?"_

 _So am I._  "Never mind. He's with me." She flinched. "I meant he's here  _with_  me, as in  _near_  me, not  _with me_ -with me…"

" _I Understand."_ Oh, she really hoped he did _. "It's just that…"_ She heard him sigh and knew by the shuffling noise that he was walking.  _"Moira's frantic. When he left in the middle of dinner we thought he'd gone to his room. But Ivan told me you'd stopped by the mansion and I put two and two together."_

"He asked for a lift. I'm sorry for any trouble sir."

" _It's quite alright. I'm just surprised at his behaviour. The last thing we expected to happen was for him run away less than a day after being home."_

Her mouth opened then closed.  _Really?_  It seemed like an odd thing to say, at least to her. "I don't see why that's so surprising." She almost face planted at the slip.

" _What do you mean?"_

 _Great, now he’s asking me._ "Well…" She was a stranger to the Queens; it felt more than a little bizarre to be commentating on something so personal.  _You've put your foot in it now, might as well go the full mile._ "Sir, there isn't exactly a precedent for this." With one wet hand in her coat pocket she rotated on the spot: the echo of far off thunder and the pounding of rain on wood, mortar and brick relaxing in the all-around gloomy atmosphere of the foundry. She liked it. "He's spent five years alone, away from  _everything_." His life and all it had entailed. "Just from the time gone, I'd have to wonder if anybody could be or act the same way as they once did." She turned again. "Expectations aren't really going to help with him."

And by 'him' she meant the guy standing five feet away from her.

She jumped; of course she did. "O-oh!"

Illuminated by a strike of lightning, Oliver stood silently under the shadows a beam of wood created. He didn't lean, didn't make a sound, didn't pull an expression, didn't try to hide the fact that he'd sneaked up on her, that he'd been standing right behind her and had moved with her as she'd moved; _following_ her.

He didn't do anything. Except watch her with that reticent gaze, almost aloof. Cold even.

" _Felicity?"_

Blinking owl-like she stared, as a brow arched on the face of the stranger. "I'm here!" Her eyes screamed at the man _what should I do?_ But he just stood there like a tree, looking somewhat… reluctant?

"E-er-"

" _Miss Smoak; is everything alright?"_

"Yes, of course it is! Why wouldn't it be?"

" _Well, I'm not sure…"_

A little nervous laugh escaped her.

" _Anyway,"_  Walter continued, seeming to possess the startling ability to adapt utterly and truly to anything he didn't fully understand,  _"Is there any chance you'll be bringing back to the mansion soon?"_

"Back to the mansion?" Her eyes had never left his figure, so she caught that shadow of a doubt in his brow and the pull of the muscles in his jaw. And for some reason she wasn't telling Mr Steel that he was with her as they spoke. Reading him, she made an instinctive decision.

"…No. Not yet." Speaking slowly, in case she was completely wrong she watched Oliver for any sign of aversion to this. There was none. "He asked me to… take him into the city, see the sights, and reacquaint himself with his er, home." Watching her as she watched him, he looked briefly away before a short nod told her everything she needed to know. "If it's too late when we're finished," she bit her lip;  _I can't believe I'm going to say this._  "He can stay at my place and I'll drive him back in the morning- though I'm  _very_  sure he can more than take care of himself."

Oliver's brow rose again.

She waved a frantic hand at his body as if to say,  _'well, hello; you have the body of Jean Claude Van Dam… only better. So much better. And I've never even seen you shirtless; I just have a wonderfully graphic imagination'_. All assumption based.

His lips pressed together.

There was a quiet exhale down the line.  _"Alright. I'll talk to Moira-"_

 _Oh no._ "Please don't mention me by name Mr Steele."

" _Don't worry; I won't. You're trying to do the right thing."_  Once again, she found herself so very lucky that she'd found herself such an understanding, if slightly stiff, boss.  _"I trust you."_

"Thank you sir."

Hanging up, she plunged her cell back into her coat-

"How did you get over the gate?"

Blinking up at Oliver, she found he'd taken a step forwards. He looked so very intrigued.

She shucked a piece of wet hair from her face. "I have a wire cutter." 'I carried a watermelon.' _Geez._

"A wire cutter."

"Uh huh." It was one of those times she'd wished she would just babble but found that she couldn't for some strange reason.

"Do you normally carry a wire cutter?"

 _Yes._ She nodded. "In the back of my car." Then shrugged at his eyebrow raise. "What?"

"Nothing."

_Um, kay._

Lightning flashed again; highlighting how wet, dishevelled they both were.

"Um, so…" she was a little lost as to what to do next. "Are you done here or…?"

He looked about him. "I'm done here." He didn't elaborate. Which was fine. she was burning with curiosity or anything. Nope. Secrets made her nutty. Seriously though; he'd been back a day. Suspicious behaviour  _should_  be at the top of the list.

She cleared her throat. "Is there anywhere else you want to go?"

"Where do you live?" He immediately replied, eyes still on his surroundings.

 _If my brain does another 404 error I'm going to lose the ability to function like a person_. "I- I live near here actually."  _Sort of._  

Was she _really_ considering bringing him home with her?

He nodded again, seemingly enamoured by the darkness beyond where he'd stepped through.

Every second she spent with the guy increased his mystery, which wasn't good. For her.

She licked her lips. "You know, when this place shut down the paperwork was done right." Finally, he looked at her. "Partnerships were liquidated. Contracts were terminated, employees were let go of, albeit without severance…"

A ripple of what she could only describe as a literal darkness across his face, silenced her.  _Whoa_. It was gone as quickly as it came but she hastily backtracked anyway. "What I mean to say is that whatever this place is worth, and it won't be much, it's in the hands of a realtor now who'd probably be more than happy to be rid of it." She didn't even know why she was saying all this. "If you'd like I could get his or her name for you."

She shut up, waiting for a response: be it a puzzled frown, an arrogant look - he was super rich, he could afford whatever he wanted - or bafflement. Anything. The situation was so surreal she had trouble processing what was happening and who it was happening with. So she didn't think. It was almost peaceful, not thinking. She hadn't 'not thought' in years.

Oliver Queen made her 'not think'. Hah.

When he eventually shifted, she could see almost nothing of his eyes in this shadowed place. "I'll think about it."

_Okie dokie, moving on…_

"So, I know this probably wasn't what you had in mind but would it be okay if we stopped someplace first?"

Like the Little Bird: he'd eaten all of her pears and when he'd tried a persimmon he'd finished it with the relish of a typically hungry male. Meaning he inhaled it in seconds. She'd tried, hard, not to watch him do this,  _his mouth was…_ she'd had to force herself to stare out of the front screen.

But seeing how fast he'd gone through them reminded her that it was one of the softer fruits, easier on the stomach and had kept offering them to him.

She was out of fruit. It needed to be rectified.

He didn't _seem_ bothered by the idea. Careful with his responses, as if he wasn't sure which reaction was the right reaction - as if he'd learned how to mask each tell and nuance - so now it was natural for him to be unresponsive. Five years on an island without a mirror might do that to a person. And this person was still very much a stranger to her, just as she must be to him.

Out of nowhere a wave of compassion hit her, unhinging her mouth. "Honestly, more than anything else, I would want to be _away_ from people. I-I mean," licking her lips, her head tilted against her shoulder when she shrugged. "If it were me, if  _I_  were  _you_ … I'd want to have the company of just me, myself and I." She'd seen Castaway after all. Too many people, a too crowded city. "Too many people with no room to breathe or think or something, I mean I could be wrong." _Shutting up now._

Floored. He looked floored. He opened his mouth, closed it… and did nothing. Eyes flickering to and fro, as if objectifying his thoughts, he was quiet again.

 _He's not saying anything._ Alarm fluttered in her chest. "What I meant to say is that-"

"I'm fine.” He uttered suddenly. “And you'd get fired." 

The bridge of her nose crinkled. "Huh?"

"If you left me alone in the Glades at night, you’d get fired." There was a flash of distaste on his face as his hands slid into his pockets. "I'd rather not be treated like a child but in the interest of not starting a panic, maybe we should just go with it."

She whispered. "I'm sorry."

The uplift to his lips was mechanical. "Don't be. It's me who's being forced on you after all."

_I wouldn't quite put it like that. You knew exactly what you were doing when you asked me for a ride…_

 

* * *

 

 

**Arrowhead Point, North Glades, off Tudor's Way… 21:16pm**

She figured it was telling that Mr Queen, a man who was technically Felicity's boss and, if nothing else, incredibly attractive, was the first person to be invited - coerced or no - to her place. Her house. Her home.

_This is a story I'm never telling anyone. Anywhere. Ever._

Going to the supermarket had been… awkward. _God_. There was no other word for it. Groaning, she tried  _not_  to bang her forehead against the steering wheel.  _So, so awkward._ And failed.

Granted, she'd expected that the whole experience of going to the supermarket with a billionaire to be redundant, but for a billionaire just back from a 5 year stint in Isolation County, it was a lesson in humility and obstinate men. Obstinate men with massive psychological baggage.

Outside of the superstore, he'd stood there like a statue; she'd had to tug him along to get him to move - barely touching him - this stranger who _she did not know_.

Forcing her unwilling, kind-of boss to shop with her was near-mortifying. It wasn't that he was catatonic, like a person with severe emotional trauma; it was as if he were taking everything in at a pace. As if he were  _remembering_ , or at least trying to.

He’d basically followed behind her like a puppy. A large puppy – a grown dog really. With a cold glare. And killer claws.

She didn’t understand why she thought he was dangerous.

At some point, when she’d been loading supplies into a basket and trying to be quick about it, she’d realised he wasn't behind her and found him three isles down, examining cable wires and electronics equipment, which was a bit of a surprise to be honest. Before she could start rambling about the efficiencies of particular circuitry - _because I’m me, hello_ \- one of the stock room staff in the store dumped a pallet roller, laden with empty pallets after stock clearing, in the same isle as them.

It was a shock to have him be there, beside her, one second - him listening to whatever was coming out of her mouth - and the next, to have him standing away at a place between ‘too far to touch’ and ‘too close to run from’; both head and eyes trained on the pallets and the stock boy like a hawk. Assessing his environment. 'Jumpy' didn't come close to describing it.

The fact that he'd palmed a Stanley Knife did _not_ escape her notice.

Nor did her discerning - slightly shaken - look pass from his.

The overhead lights had thrown his face into pallid reflection and she was sure she didn't look any better. He stared her down. Whatever he saw - or decided - had him quietly clearing his throat before he placed the knife back on its shelf. With a _huge_ amount of reluctance.

His hand shook.

His index finger and thumb had rubbed together and he’d kept a distance of several feet from her after that as she continued to buy her groceries. Having his eyes on her -  _literally; the whole time,_ as if staring at her rooted him to a single place - had made her more than a little uncomfortable.

But she'd still, for some odd reason, bought the knife he'd placed down.

And it had relaxed him. Sure, he'd been stunned, but something has settled in his shoulders.

Though it made her question just what the hell was wrong with  _her_.

"Are you okay?"

Of course; he was still right there, sitting next to her in her crappy car.

Eyes still closed, because what was the point in being normal when he'd just seen her forehead flop against the back of her hand and had likely heard her pitiful groan. She flicked her fingers out, tapping them on the wheel. "I'm fine. Totally. Fine."

"...Okay."

 _Ugh_. She moved, looking up at him _._ "So," her hand gestured out the window in front of them, "this is my home sweet home."

His eyes followed her finger.

It was at the end of a corner, a forked road just outside of the Glades and literally at the tip of Tudor's Way; the highway, lane and path lead to the busy hub that was Starling City central but the area itself had always been very quiet. Unused. Her home sat alone at the very end of the street ,in a rundown building that was once an apartment block. No other house stood on this particular street. Around one bend sat  _several_  houses, around another was a Laundromat and around the third was a business she'd never cared for the name of. She was close to Queen's Park too, but literally her street was one filled with closed up shops and offices.

She'd chosen it for that very reason.

Out of her peripheral, she watched him for a reaction. Whilst she had never invited anyone inside before, she’d gotten close and the looks on their faces had been enough to prove to Felicity that the majority of the populace took beauty at face value.

If Oliver Queen didn't like the fact that her home was an abysmal looking, abandoned building - one she'd gotten at a steal - that was standing on a dimly lit street, then he'd have to lump it. He was the one that couldn't face his family after all.

But as she shut her car door, coming around the side, he was already there - hands out - and reaching for her bags, refusing her  _'no, it's alright'_  and lifting the proverbial middle finger to extremist feminists everywhere. His expression on wasn’t any different from the apathetic one she'd been getting used to. No judgement. Nothing.

_Oh. Well then._

There was a tingling in her fingertips that told a tale about the cons of excess adrenaline. It was controllable. For now.

He followed her over to a door with black paint crusting over it. There were many ways to get into the building; this was just the most obvious one. Key in the lock, Felicity turned to him.

"Ready?" She felt like rolling her eyes at herself.  _Why wouldn't he be?_

He just looked at her. And having Oliver Queen so focused on her… _this was a bad idea_.

Opening the door, she ushered him inside, locking it again. The vestibule was the exact opposite of the black door; a small white space with no features. Sterile. Her home was one floor up… she was the only tenant in the building. And the building was hers.

Not thinking about the fact that the son/stepson of her boss was following her, she moved up the set of stairs front of her and not the hallway to her side. There was an alarm box next to the door – there was a secondary alarm system inside that she rarely used - and she keyed in the code, knowing that he'd see it;  _I'll just change it tomorrow. Maybe install upgrades. No I'm not paranoid; just careful. In the most extreme sense._

Then she opened the door.

Felicity loved her apartment. She loved it because she'd played a part in its final design. It held a piece of her in its pages, so to speak.

When she'd first moved to Starling, she'd stayed in a B&B before happening across this glorious find. It held so much potential. And nobody wanted to live there, nobody  _had_  lived there for years before Felicity stepped foot inside. There’d been a shootout on the floors that should have made WEBG Starling City 7 News history but hadn't since the civilians involved, numbering in the double digits, had been vagabonds, drug users and nomads; the general homeless populace. Her first incentive.

Being dirt cheap had been her  _second_  incentive.

Her third, was that the floor above her apartment had collapsed-in. Someone had very kindly managed to, rather than construct another floor, fill in the cracks and weak points of what was remaining on that level. Half a floor that came with her own… for  _free_. Since it wasn't technically a floor anymore. Very promptly she'd handed over the money to a very tired and befuddled looking realtor, snatching the keys with relish and a happy dance like the caffeine infested bunny rabbit she was...

She'd sanded and dusted, chopped and painted her way through the two floors until it became _hers,_ but she didn't stop there. Knocking down several walls and building others had managed to make her place appear bigger than it already was and it was pretty massive already. It had taken her days to build a set of inexpensive winding stairs at the base of the impressive 'hole' above her head. If she stood in the upper half of the lower floor she could see up into the open space above that she'd furnished, albeit spartanly. And there were no doors up there, which she preferred.

So walking in, the first thing a person would see was the vast expanse of the main room.

Picture if you will, the warmth of a terracotta carpet stretching 20 metres by forty, because that was the length of her living room. A kitchen stood to the right of the room without a wall to separate it from the main area. Her tribute to _Friends;_ only a much swankier, larger version. In fact the whole place was such a wide space that her two sofa settee's, grey in colour, looked tiny. Further beyond this was an open area where she could and did do anything she wanted and to the left and right of this space were a couple of large, sliding doors. There was a pine table alongside one wall and an assortment of strange knick knacks that she'd collected over the years displayed behind glass in cabinets or exposed on small stools, a coffee table and side cupboards. There were a few pictures too and above her HD TV, a selection of Robin Hood movie posters held timeless for all the world to see… or maybe just the one man she'd allowed inside.

In the winter her inviting looking fire would automatically spring to life the moment she opened the door.

She flicked on a couple of lights, and watched the darkness slide away to the softness of dim lanterns and teardrops.

"Honey, I'm home." She breathed and it was habitual.

She felt him stiffen behind her. "You live with someone?"

A flush broke over her skin. "No, I live alone.  It's uh… it's a habit."

Actually, it was because of a certain feline…

She licked her lips, taking off her coat. "But I do own a cat. Or rather, she owns me. Comes and goes whenever she pleases."

He didn't say anything and she didn't blame him. There was a floor mat adjacent to the door where she slipped off her sodden shoes, trying to quell her growing nerves. Because, yes, there was a man now in her home with possible aggressive tendencies and more than probable PTSD.

The solemnity, the unusual behaviour, the calculating and aloof expression, the robotic head turns; these were easily rationalised if PTSD were placed in the equation. Felicity knew that in order to be diagnosed with PTSD, an individual must have directly or indirectly experienced some sort of trauma.  _Being shipwrecked on an island could be diagnosed as traumatic enough but…_

Something didn't feel right about that.

She couldn't forget the image of him palming that knife, the same knife she knew he'd pilfered after she’d bought it when he thought she wasn't looking.

Why would he feel like he needed a knife? As if he were in danger, as if he was _used_ to danger, used to having to protect himself in lethal ways. But he wasn't a soldier returning from war nor had he been a victim of a horrifically long stay with a terrorist cell looking for a profit from a rich American family. No; he was just a man who'd been shipwrecked on an unpopulated island and left alone for five years… right?

Hyper-vigilance was one of the three main categorised symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, one characterised by frequent 'starts', where a person might not be able to relax because he or she is on constant alert.

Avoidance was another _,_ which would explain his reluctance to go home.

Had anyone asked him what had happened whilst he was away? Had anybody asked him what he really wanted? Had anyone wondered at whether or not he'd need therapy? Or if not therapy, someone simply to talk to?

Did anybody actually ask him if he was alright? Just that? _Please tell me somebody asked him if he was alright._

There was a sinking feeling in her stomach.

Alright as in _'no, I'm not alright; I'm barely coping but what do you expect from me? I was shipwrecked and isolated for years! This is my new normal.'_

Not alright as in _'yes, I'm fine. I'm home now. Everything's going to be okay. I'm the exact same person I was when I left.'_ Just thinking the words gave her the creeps.

But after five years in any environment considered foreign, a man could and would change. And Oliver Queen would have definitely changed. Into what, she didn't have a clue.

Except now he had a knife.

 _This was such a bad idea. Thinking too much about it is also such a bad idea. It really isn't good for my adrenaline,_ which was currently torpedoing into the stratosphere.

But the sinking feeling vanished when she turned to watch him out of the corner of her eye and caught the oddest look on his face. His expressionless face finally had character and the change was just as startling as it had been when he'd smiled.

Taking in her apartment, his eyes had lost their cool composure; the ice blue relaxing into the deeper waters of gentle surprise. They flickered over everything; the stained staircase in the far corner, the number of doors like he was looking for the exits, the framed collector's editions Errol Flynn, Russell Crowe, Kevin Costner and Richard Green all in their green Robin of the Hood regalia and for just a moment, she felt as if an invisible wall she hadn't noticed before, had dropped free off him.

He'd let down his guard, just a tad, which was difficult to do for someone suffering PTSD.

But it made whatever anxiety had started to blossom in her chest fade somewhat. She reached for the grocery bags and when his eyes snapped back to her, she didn't flinch or do anything other than smile, taking the handles from his fingers.

"Like the place?" She asked as she manoeuvred her way to her kitchen and calling back over her shoulder as she turned from him. "It took a while to do up."

"It's… nice. Big."

 _I'll take what I can get._ Placing pears and Persimmon's in a wicker fruit bowl without making them look like a lurid green and orange mess could be a literal art form. "Thanks!"

"It wasn't what I expected." She shouldn't have heard the low mutter but – fantastic hearing. "Did you do all this yourself?"

"Most of it." She offloaded mint chip into the freezer. "The hole in the ceiling was there when I bought the place."

"You're not just renting?"

"Nope!” At least, not for the passed year. “It's all mine."

Adjusting her glasses,  _ugh,_ the little water marks would take forever to clean, she walked back into the main area where he was stood in the exact same spot she'd left him in, except he'd shucked off his coat; he’d folded it over his arms.

"You can hang that up you know."

"My shoes are wet…"

He looked so… unsure. She found it absurdly adorable for some reason. Head tilted, a smile spilled powerlessly from her. "You can take them off too. Take it all off." her eyes widened. "Or don't! Your choice."

Obviously nothing fazed this guy because without even the tiniest acknowledgement of her verbal gaff, the man simply began unfastening the laces of his shoes, placing them with hers and hanging his coat on the rack beside her red one.

 _Right,_ she nodded to herself.

 _Drive him to the morbidly ghostly factory of supreme potential, check. Take him on an unplanned and probably unsolicited tour of Little Bird where thankfully nobody had spotted that it was Oliver Queen strolling next to me like an overgrown crow,_ like they'd even recognise him _, check. Bring him back to my place for reasons totally negating any and all gutter drenched images that those opening words immediately implanted in my brain, check…_

_Now what?_

For some reason, the idea of engaging in small talk sounded incredibly patronising. And terrifying.  _Liking the constant rain? Basketball fan are you? Yes, I'm partial to a little Fall Out Boy myself, but it wouldn't be my first choice. What happened on Prison Break? I'd tell you if I'd watched it though I suggest you stay away from Lost for the immediate future…_

Internally, she was already cringing.  _I am so bad at this. '_ This' being the art of talking to and bringing men, because he certainly isn't a boy, home with her. Strange men. Unbelievably rich and handsome -  _smoking hot, really, can't lie_  - men who’d left behind a reputation for sleeping with every gorgeous girl from Starling to Massachusetts.

_Which I am not._

Gorgeous.

There was no way she could fault him when he stopped short; she’d been fidgeting and her leg was jigging on the spot. But his eyes were trained behind her, low to the floor…

_Oh, right._

The brush of very wet fur stroked across the skin of her lower calf until she felt it on her shins. Felicity looked down,  _there she is._

When it came to Mau, Felicity's awareness was almost sharper than her hearing.

Caught in the feline beauty that a pair of small green and gold irises can bestow, she tilted her head. "I know; I'm late."

Her cat was a beautiful bronze Egyptian Mau; slightly larger than the average size cat and twice as intelligent.

One loud 'meow' sounded out from deep within its throat and Felicity rolled her eyes. "And I got your food."

Oliver looked like he had no idea what to do and it was refreshing to not be the one out of their depth, if not entertaining. Especially when Mau slinked over to him and started sniffing his feet, padding around him to get a good look. Apparently one time around wasn't enough for her either.  _I know how you feel._

"Mau?" She called. And was ignored.  _Figures_.

She was halfway to the closet when she was finally able to string more than two words together. "Do you want a towel?" 

 "Please."

Felicity pulled out her largest, softest one. "Here." Pointing behind her, towards the far door, next to the back window she asked, "Do you mind if I just check on something for a moment?"

He looked at her.

She blinked at him.

He slowly shook his head -  _no_.

"Thanks. So, uh, I got you a pair of sweatpants. Had to guess your size but I figured if you were coming over you'd want to dry those clothes." She tried for a confident laugh but it sounded more like a wheeze because,  _gulp._ It meant taking clothes off. An idea she was more than partial to but he was still a stranger so, no. "Didn't want you walking around naked. Not that it would be _any_ kind of problem for you - or me - to be naked and in my house, far from it, I mean you're really- and I'm going to stop now. Just stop talking Felicity."  _I could die._ Shaking her head, she reached for the bag when he spoke.

"What happened to the Glades?"

Half bent over; she peeked at him over her arm. "Sorry?"

"The Glades." He reiterated; the towel still neatly folded in his hands. "Before I…" In the longest of pauses that followed he didn't move or breathe, his facial expression didn't change at all. He just looked at her until he found the word, any word. " _Left_ , it was already…" Again with the searching.

"Falling to pieces?" She offered.

"Yes." His voice was quiet. "But now it looks worse. I barely saw any of it but it  _still_  looks worse." Finally, he moved, taking a step towards her. "Was it because my father closed the factory?"

Her heart gave a twinge.

 _Tread carefully._ "No. I can see why you would think that but, no." She straightened. "I've only lived in Starling for about two and half years. But I did some research. Research is something I do a lot of," she explained when the slightest tilt of his head asked her to. "Closure of Queen's Industrial Shipping Factory didn't kill the Glades, but it  _was_  considered to be the final blow in a series of really hard setbacks, knock downs and deliberate tampering that has led the Glades to its own destruction via internal combustion." She shrugged. "Very deliberate use of words."

"How bad?"

Her heavy exhale puffed her cheeks. "Let's put it this way; don't ever walk around the Glades at night alone. In fact don't walk around the Glades at night period, not if you aren't aware of the Safe zones. Don't expect to get a job there either because there aren't any. Unless you count petty crime as employment. And some of it's not so petty. The rich folks of Starling tend to ignore the general degeneration of an integral part of their city." Well into it now she'd totally blanked Oliver, who still stood, prone and silent somewhere to her left. "Pretty sure some of them play a hand in making it worse."

"What?"

She blinked, eyes losing their pensive veneer. "Never mind." She passed him the pants, pretending to herself that he wasn’t just _staring_ at her. "I won't be a minute. If you want to change you can put your clothes on the kitchenette and I'll stick them in the wash." And with that she moved away, towards the nondescript far door and stepped inside, sliding it shut behind her.

Do you know the true irony of the Glades? It's very simple: a 'glade' is an open area within woodland. The woodland being what makes up the rest, the majority, of Starling City. People in this city deemed the Glades as a dangerous place to live in on the simple ground that crime of any particular element was the most prevalent there. But it's in the 'woodland' area where the true monsters creep, the ones hidden behind glass and doors and buildings and money. In a dark forest it's difficult to sometimes see the wood for the trees. And in Starling City it was in the cleanest, the mightiest, and the safest places that Felicity had discovered to be the most insidious.

Monsters like James Holder, CEO of Holder Corporation, were a symptom of this darkness.

And he wasn't the sole occupant of the list she'd compiled. That list and this room were two more examples of why Felicity never invited colleagues to her home.

Striding forwards with a purpose, Felicity approached what appeared to be a mammoth network of a complex array of servers, base units, and monitors; the most up to date software and hardware a person who knows what they are looking for can by. A HUB. It took up almost a third of the room by itself and if there weren't additional monitors attached to the walls there were pictures, maps, newspaper cuttings, data profiles, filing cabinets and an unfathomable series of what would look like, to a layman, a confusing mess of numbers. But to Felicity they were a language.

She didn't sit in the comfortable swivel chair, opting to simply lean over one of the three keyboards on her modestly fitted, cumbersome desk and modify her on-going search for 'patterns'. Eyes flickering to her where, in the darkness, a whiteboard stood - her thought board and analysis syphon - which she'd covered over with a spare sheet, she thought: _tomorrow I add James Holder. Right next door to Adam Hunt._

The night didn't last long after that.

After a little while, she'd gone back into the main room to find that he'd changed out of his pants and into the loose fitting black sweatpants. He'd also taken off the thinly weaved, long sleeved top he had on over a simple white T- shirt, which was still very much in place and, more to the point, dry.

An awkward moment of silence had stretched between the two of them.

But he immediately admitted to being tired. She didn't need to ask for an explanation.  _How about 'I came back from the dead yesterday and it's been nonstop ever since'? That works._

Plus, being shipwrecked on an island? There was no alarm clock. She'd have been surprised if he'd managed to keep a watch.

Following her upstairs, she navigated him past the hole in the floor, which was covered by a banister, into a small hall that led to her spare guest room.

She saw him notice the solid lack of doors upstairs. Her bedroom lay sort of adjacent to the guest room but it slanted away so you couldn't really see directly into either of the rooms from whichever end.

His eyes flickered from the bed to the window and then to the floor and she had a sneaking suspicion that the man wouldn't be sleeping on the comfortable mattress any time soon. Leaving him to his own devices and decidedly not thinking about the fact that Mr Queen - the most attractive man she’d veer seen before in her short life - was going to be spending the night, she made to walk to the bathroom when she heard him speak.

"Felicity?"

It was the first time he'd said her name and it hit her like a wall.

She turned back, swallowing her butterflies. “Yes?”

"Thank you." He looked so serious, she smiled. Serenely, softly.

"You're welcome Oliver."

But in the bathroom, after locking it with the metal bolt on the door, on taking in that first deep, stuttering breath on facing the knowledge that she'd invited a stranger into her home, on realising that with him being there she couldn't possibly do what she _normally_  did during the night… her entire being revolted.

Body shaking, skin rapidly glistening with sweat -  _no -_ vision tunnelling as the cells of her body worked overtime -  _not now -_ as the neurons moved faster than she was likely able to stand, she stumbled over to the cabinet above her sink, searching for a specific bottle of pills. It had been a long time since she'd had to take her meds. Xanax, Diazepam, Ativan, Sarafem – name a benzodiazepine and she'd tried it.

_Control yourself._

All she had to do was wait for it to take effect. Back hitting the door, she slid down; body hunched, knees brought up to her chest, eyes closed, she forced her mind blank, for her lungs to expand as she breathed her meditation song. No kinetic energy reached her hands.

_No sudden movements…_

 

* * *

 

 

**04:01am…**

_Sleep of the Just, my ass…_

The drowsy thought ghosted her as she turned over, seeking comfort in her pillows. There was much pummelling and then some twisting of bed sheets.

She drifted off into a 'half-wake, half-sleeping' thing…

After the panic attack, slumber - as in wholesome respite - had been a long time coming. She'd tossed and turned until finally giving into the overpowering fact that her body wanted to do more than lie down. So she'd chosen yoga.  _That's normal, right? Yoga after 12am?_

Lying down on the mat at the foot of her bed, Felicity had stretched, tucked, pulled and manoeuvred her body into almost every shape imaginable.

 _He'd_ been quiet. It shouldn’t have woken him up.

Yet, she couldn't help but feel like she was being watched. The flicker of movement in her peripheral had told her so, calling for distraction but she'd ignored it.  _Put it down to partial insomnia, because honestly? Who slept well after all that he'd been through?_

She'd heard him too, in spits and spats during her own fitful sleep; a gasp here, a mumble there, the odd groan which definitely had her panicking but she hadn't gone to him. One of the first rules of dealing with a person with PTSD was to never wake them unless you understood more about the situation; let it happen naturally.

But he'd shouted out too.

_Sara_

_Dad_

_No_

_SARA!_

_Not you_

_Laurel_

Other words became an indistinguishable mess of mumbling, fast breathing and odd accents. Then he'd quieted again.

Laurel and Sara Lance.

During her research on Starling and her subsequent find of all things 'Ollie', she'd been hard-pressed to come across an article about him that  _didn't_  involve Tommy Merlyn or either of the aforementioned women.

 _It must be hard to come home to. He hasn't felt it yet but he will._ The judgement. The hate. The overwhelming adoration. The throng of people who claim to know who and what he is, who treat his story as a sensational happening, as if he'd been on a five year pleasure cruise rather than a five year stretch on an island he probably now views as a prison.

_Prison._

The news had referred to the island as a place called 'Lian Yu'. Accurate translation; Purgatory.

 _God I hope it isn’t a literal description._ Flashes of online images popped up under her eyelids.  _I can't even rest when I float._ She was vaguely aware of an open window, somewhere, could feel the breeze on her skin; the temperature and moisture in the air conveying that the rain fall hadn't quite ceased just yet-

There was a shift.

Just a…  _something_. Something was different. Her heartbeat was already accelerating, her mind waking dizzyingly fast,  _something isn't right._

Opening her eyes, mere slits of vision that took in her room… Nothing. There was nothing-

Oliver was standing in her doorway.

It was dark,  _too dark_ , but her eyes were natural adapters any light and the light from the moon was more than enough to help her see him standing straight and formidable in size, half a step inside her bedroom, to see his _face_ … The pounding in her chest rocketed. His eyes were on edge; a blank slate, staring right at her.

He was holding the knife she'd bought as a compassionate compromise.

_Oh frack me…_

 


	4. On Stranger Tides

** **

 

**The night before, 10:36pm, Starling City General Hospital, October 2012**

It started with him running.

Running away from something, running towards someone; it didn’t matter. He’d started running five years ago. He hadn’t stopped and when he stood still he was running even faster.

But he couldn’t help looking back over his shoulder. A constant.

He’d returned.

_Can you tell us your name?_

_Mr Queen!_

_Sir, are you hurt anywhere?_

_Are you Oliver Queen?_

Oliver. Queen.

It was like falling back into step. Except it also really wasn’t.

They’d asked him over and over again, the doctors, for something so simple. For his name.

The tests were the worst of it. They were unnecessary. He was fine. In China, before he’d boarded the plane, he’d taken off the wig, cut his hair and bathed. Not for himself, but because the expressions on the faces of the strangers who’d stolen a look at ‘The American Wild Man’, told him that if he wanted to blend in, he’d have to.

 _The men who found me gave me their own name. D_ _ǎ_ _o de j_ _ī_ _ngsh_ _é_ _n. Mandarin._ The Spirit of the Island.

Weather beaten, rugged and fierce. Haunted. A ghost who’d walked out of the forest’s shadow; that’s what he’d looked like to them. The spirit of purgatory.

Maybe he was.

Sterile and bright, the hospital room felt exposed. Night didn’t have synthetic light. Night held chilblains and the heartbeat of the ocean. The night held the knife, the claw and the gunshot.

He was told to relax, told that he could. That it would be alright. That he was in his natural, normal environment and therefore, safe.

They didn’t know.

Normal wasn’t benign. Not anymore. But for the staff, public hospital meant safety. A neutral zone. In all the so-called neutral zones he’d stood in the past five years, none of them had been neutral.

There was no such thing as _safe_.

Dr Lamb had stared into his eyes and, unable to see past the surface, had found an enigma. It put a stop to the questions, to asking if he needed anything, to trying to get him to react in some way all so that the good doctor wouldn’t have to tell Moira Queen that her son was catatonic. Or worse.

That her son was no longer her son.

Hippocratic Oath be damned, right?  _Money must be involved. I shouldn’t be surprised._

Even good men could be corrupted.

Completely unreceptive but - to the doctor’s consternation - surreally calm, Oliver had stood through the examinations without making a sound; hadn’t flinched as hands trespassed over him and honestly hadn’t been concerned at how the scars on his body would appear. Not to them. Not to strangers whose care he’d never be under again. They would pass it off as one of the consequences of being shipwrecked and pity would ensure their silence. People could be made to believe anything.

Staring through a window at the city’s skyline, he waited for Dr Lamb to tell his mother to prepare herself. That her son was scarred. That he might not be the person who embarked on a voyage of lust five years before.

And he wasn’t; but he couldn’t show her that. Not ever. He needed to play a roll that would start the second she enters the room. To live each day as something else, someone he couldn’t possibly be anymore. Case in point; who he used to be was a boy who would run towards the comfort that the title ‘mother’ had naturally represented once upon a time.

He was empty of it now.

Ironic that ‘Ollie Queen’ was a facet of himself he now despised and yet he knew that the ‘Oliver’ who’d survived would be repugnant to those who’d known ‘Ollie’. Ironic. Neither of his ‘selves’ deserved saving. He was far past that. But sometimes what needed to be done, asked for darkness.

For his other face was a mask of truth, one hooded in obscurity. His mother and sister; they would never see it for they lived in the light and always would. As it should be.

It had been easy to objectively evaluate those he’d come across in the hours since his arrival. And now he discovered one truth.

He could  _never_  be himself here.

His vicissitudes weren’t tolerable, couldn’t be. They’d evolved with the many scars he’d gradually received, each one teaching a different lesson. Teaching a different ability. He’d lived the type of life they couldn’t fathom and he didn’t want them to know.

Pretending normalcy would be difficult, but he was ready.

So it was fine. He simply waited. And stared out through the glass.

In many ways Starling was still the same; that purity mixed with the poison. The good and the bad. It was a home where what was once familiar, no longer recognised him. But the strangeness, the city itself, did.

And then his mother stepped into the room. Quietly, tentatively, taking one step. Then another, before stopping. Before speaking.

“Oliver?”

As if she wasn’t sure just yet that it was him.

Moira Queen would never know, ever, in those brief moments, how close she’d been to the truth, to the  _real_  of who he’d become.

Her voice saying his name forced him to take a breath. His shoulders heaved from the weight of it. Hearing her voice over the phone was so different from hearing it in person. Then he turned to face her, eyes on the floor till the last possible second.

And there she was.

Seeing her face, his immediate response was to shrink away. To deny her the chance to see the failure written on his skin, the _ugly_ in his eyes. Such a paradox: he didn’t want to reveal to her any of the differences, yet he also didn’t want her to want to  _see_  ‘Ollie’ either. He tensed, his chest constricting; he’d  _missed_  her. He loved her.

…Now the lies would begin, for they had already begun before the island. His guard, which had never dropped, rose ever higher.

It could never fall.

It felt like a small miracle, seeing her again and it was one he found zero comfort in. In the past, whenever he’d royally screwed up, she’d been there to protect and shelter him, to weather his punishments for him. Unconditional love given freely. It was alien to him now; something he couldn’t receive and didn’t deserve anymore. It didn’t feel  _right_.

He didn’t mind that it didn’t.

There was a displacement between who he was then and who he is now. It stopped him from feeling the full force of relief he should have felt. He no longer knew what it was to be reassured by a parental figure.

And he was fine with that. Had come to terms with it. But  _she_  didn’t know that.

So she hugged him, like mom’s do –  _my beautiful boy_ – blind with love, when he didn’t want her to touch him. It was a touch that expected things from him, things he couldn’t give. But she needed it, had gained strength from it, so he held her - held her in a way he’d never had to before; with him being the pillar of strength instead of her - until she was done.

He smelt a scent on her skin that wasn’t her own. _Aftershave_.

A man’s scent on her neck and in her hair. He didn’t know who it was; he just knew that it wasn’t Robert Queen’s. Because he was dead.

Luckily Oliver had perfect control.

 

* * *

 

 

**Queen Mansion**

The pictures on the table were the first thing he’d seen. A violent reminder of… everything. Nothing. All of it.

He’d expected to come home and feel something.

He’d looked at the stone and brick and mortar, pausing on the threshold to the mansion… and felt detached.

That first step through the front doors had been like stepping onto the surface of Mars.

It really had disappeared; the idea of home. It no longer existed.

A part of him had been holding onto that; a sense of belonging to a place, of returning. He supposed it no longer mattered. And it was cemented, that non-feeling, by Walter Steele, now the CEO of Queen Consolidated. His father’s old position. His mother’s  _lover_. Husband. The scent of him, the same trace he’d taken in at the hospital, filled the air but it was strongest on his mother’s neck.

It had pulled at the spine. His father had been replaced.

The genuine affection on Raisa’s face almost made the experience worth it; her hands were the same hands that used to pat his cheek as a child.

And  _Thea_ …

The once little girl with pigtails in her hair, who’d followed him everywhere and adored the ground he’d walked on, had grown into this beautiful young woman with problems of her own. If he hadn’t seen her that day two and a half years before, the sight of her rushing down those steps would have crushed him. Instead he’d merely gained a semblance of solace from the simplicity of their still very present connection. On the fact that he just loved her. Had really missed her. The way he saw her, how she saw him…

It was the one thing that hadn’t changed. His sister was someone he’d do anything for. No compromises.

_“I missed you so much.”_

_“You were with me the whole time.”_

Her hugs were an embrace he could stand, could reciprocate, even though it already asked questions he wouldn’t give her. Even though it threatened disappointment.

He thought briefly on how the world still viewed him, how the people around him would continue to see him. He’d seen the stares in the hospital, had heard the news on the television in his room…

The way Tommy immediately expected to see and hear the same ‘Ollie Queen’ he once knew as he’d breezed through the front door to the mansion. Billionaire playboy.

_What a joke._

He didn’t know what it meant to be that anymore.

It  _should_  have hurt him, would have made him question the minds of the people around him, to wonder how they could possibly think that, after five years in foreign waters, he wouldn’t have changed at all.

Now, he just wondered how he could use the façade.

It had nothing to do with morality; people tended to see what they expected, what they wanted, and what was easiest to accept. He couldn’t fault the members of his family for doing the same. Not after leaving them alone for five years.

Even if it meant that for him it must be _business as usual_. 

He’d made the decision; he’d been ready to return, so he had. Oliver Queen had a job to do.

But it was uncomfortable.

Being around them was almost excruciating. No amount of anticipation could have prepared him to see the changes he’d played no part in, the growth he hadn’t witnessed or how some things hadn’t changed a bit, where he without a doubt, _had_. Nothing could have prepared him for how hard it would be to see everyone again - and he hadn’t even stepped out of the zone of immediate family yet.

 

* * *

 

 

**6pm, Queen Mansion**

His room…

…Was _not_ his room. Not anymore. It belonged to a stranger: a selfish, delinquent juvenile - a rich man’s excuse for a failure in the family – who’d squandered his days with the girls he’d once brought up there. Though after Laurel-

_Laurel._

Who was she now?

A lawyer, he knew that. Did she talk to her father as much as he wished he could talk to his own?

Did she hate him? Of course she did. Would she ever look at him the way she used to, as if he hung the moon?

_I never did._

But he missed that comfort: to know that at the end of the day, there was at least one person who thought you were everything. Even if he hadn’t deserved the title, even if it was a lie, even if she hadn’t seen the sides to him he’d hid so well.

He wasn’t deluded; he knew that if she saw him again… he had no idea what to expect from her. Anger? Had she missed him? Would she  _see_  him,  _into_  him, the way he’d changed? Would she still love him, or would she have moved on?

If she had, maybe _he_ could.

Everything was odd to him now, what was once familiar was now different; the feeling of being out of place present in every memory he held dear, in every room in the mansion.

_“May I be excused?”_

His abrupt departure from the table had been his controlled version of a near sprint. He’d made his mother uncomfortable. He’d seen it. From his collective experience, he knew that his direct stare, the way he sat, his overall body language had a deliberate effect. He’d used it on her. And it had worked.

 _Who did I bring home,_ had flashed precipitously through her eyes. He’d scared his mother by being himself.

A cruel anecdote.

He’d left so he could find a place where he could feel it. The truth: that his mum had moved on. She’d said goodbye to his father when he hadn’t and probably never would. He didn’t realise until taking that first deep breath in the hall, how much that cost him.

He found himself looking at the pictures on the walls, one in particular of Robert Queen, placed against the panelling; easily missed by guests but not by his sharp gaze.

_Everything’s changed. Yet nothing really has._

Tommy was still Tommy. Brave but clueless. He still partied, still slept around and still wore that charismatic smile that made all the girls lose their senses. Still lived life like he was 22; a wicked Peter Pan, a philanderer with money to burn.

But the most surprising thing? Tommy  _still_  needed his best friend to navigate life’s waters with him. Even after all this time; he’d picked up right where they’d left off and it had thrown Oliver, astounded at how Tommy had managed to downplay five years of hell with a reference.

_“Yachts suck.”_

As if being threatened in China by a madman didn’t change you.

And Oliver was thankful for it; he needed it. It was impossible and undeniable - Tommy Merlyn being the same guy he’d always been was something Oliver needed. On something being exactly as it was. That a man like Tommy could remain untouched by the harsh reality of life. And he planned to keep it that way.

Tommy would be fine in there. He was probably eating the fine food Oliver hadn’t touched. Living the life he’d lived, from serving a prison sentence on an island, to being held hostage by a clandestine sector of the government in China, to being back on the island as a mercenary, to drinking with the Bratva in Russia… eating habits alter. The size of his palate had fluctuated - decreased, too used to eating on the run, too many times eating only for the necessity of slating hunger - to small portions that rarely consisted of a cooked meal.

Everything on his plate had reeked of flavour. Too rich. So he’d asked for a pear and had ended up hiding it like a shameful secret.

He’d wanted to be here, to come back. But, at the same time, he also really hadn’t, didn’t.

Like an itch under his skin he couldn’t scratch, he just wanted to be out there. To be underway. Searching for people on the list, finding out where they live and hide. Seeking their secrets and exploiting their weaknesses. Giving justice to those the law refused to help. To cut past the red tape. To serve a purpose. To honour his father.

But he knew it wasn’t time. There were things he had to do first, to prepare. It would take time and it would take a lot of work. And all he could do right now was… head up to his old room. A place haunted by his mother’s memories of him; she hadn’t changed a thing about it.

Her touch was everywhere. It didn’t help when Thea let slip that she used to spend hours at a time in there, crying over his affects, having his clothes cleaned, re-cleaned; everything that was once his laminated - frozen in time - and kept pristine.

The room represented Ollie Queen.

Ollie Queen didn’t deserve the dedication. Ollie Queen died on the island. Ollie Queen hadn’t had the strength to survive. Oliver had killed Ollie and took his face to wear.

Reaching for the picture, his fingers traced its surface-

-A quiet rustling of fabric, key chains and papers in a coat pocket, made him freeze.

It wasn’t Raisa: her quiet shuffle easily recognisable amongst the neat tap of Ivan’s French loafers. And everyone else living in the mansion where now seated in the dining hall.

Quietly, he moved. Crept. Down the silent hallway leading to the front doors…

Her back was to him and she was soaked. Blond hair, pulled high, was stuck to the back of a coat so red it stood out in the browns of the foyer. Modest heels added to an average height: the epitome of demure. Except she wasn’t wearing tights and the rain hadn’t done a single thing to make what he could see of her legs, less attractive.

She was dripping on a carpet so expensive his mother had once paid people to have it weekly cleaned. And she was muttering as she wrestled with her coat before stilling as his foot touched the ground.

Her head came up like an animal catching a scent and the oddest sense of deja vu came over him. When she turned, it actually caught him by surprise. A watchful surprise.

Her eyes, lively, were astute: immediately landing him. Her gaze pushed him out of hiding because _she shouldn’t have been able to hear me._

He watched her mouth open; full lips covered in dusty-pink lipstick… a red pen hung out of it.

She wasn’t someone from his past, wasn’t a friend of the family; he’d have remembered her.

Very blonde - bottle blond - hair glowed beneath the lights; lips in a colourful shade, eyes deeply, vividly, blue… yes; he would have remembered her. “Who are you?” He asked.

Almost a blink, the lids of her eyes fluttered.

When lightning flashed - a streak of blue-white arching through the windows - he felt every cell in his body focus on it. Storms didn’t frighten him anymore, didn’t blind him, didn’t make him want to run for cover. They stirred his blood. And with every crackle of electricity, his gaze grew ever more focused; he never blinked, just rode it out.

Still, it was his least favourite weather.

But it lit this woman up like a spotlight.

Nerves got the better of her. “Felicity Queen. Smoak! Felicity Smoak, my name is Felicity  _Smoak_.”

As if saving the image of that - whatever it was - in his head, Oliver did blink this time. Her voice was an odd mix of light frequency and low density. Young, rich and gentle. Light.

When she quickly pulled off her wet glasses, he knew she’d recognised him. Maybe the news had let slip his picture or maybe she knew a member of his family and had seen photographs of him about the house. And the look in her eyes told him that it had taken her so long to put a name to a face, because he’d changed. A lot.

Finally; the accurate reaction.

He moved closer. Every shift and pull of muscle a deliberate act; slow movements intended to make her relax, when-

“- _You’re_  Oliver Queen.”

 _Loud_.

“I know I am.”

“I-I know who you are!” She stuttered out, a nervous smile twitching on her lips as he watched water drip down her throat. “You’re Mr Queen.”

 _No._ It hit him in the gut: Mr Queen.  _Dad_. It had been the first time someone saying, ‘Mr Queen’ had made him think of his father.

Taking in the photos on the table where he put his pear, he’d given her a chance to pull herself together. The Queen’s Gambit at the height of its glory.

What he wouldn’t give to destroy it.

“Mr Queen was my father.” He said, turning back towards this ‘Felicity Smoak’.  _Felicity_. Unusual. He wanted to say it aloud, to see how it would sound. “I’d prefer not to be called that.”

She nodded quickly. “Of course, since he’s dead.” If he’d been drinking, he might have spat it out. “I mean he drowned!”

He blinked again.

 _…Okay_. The surprise of it waved through him. He could have stopped her from continuing.

But he didn’t.

“But  _you_  didn’t. Which was why you could be here right now.” The water droplets and clear pink flush blossoming over her collarbone was like an exclamation mark. A lovely one. “Listening to me babble.” Catching her large gulp, she turned towards the other end of the hallway, which he realised Ivan was walking down.  “Which will end, like my dignity, in three, two, one…”

It took him a moment to realise he was _smiling._ That it was voluntary. That it _felt_ good.

Then as her eyes flickered back to him, it hit him: the babbling, the talking to herself, the hair, her sense of dress… a memory, one trailing loose like smoke.

 _Trailing her fingers alongside his mother’s desk, she paused at the framed photograph there. “You’re cute._ _It’s too bad you’re, you know, dead. Which is obviously a lot worse for you than it was for me.”_

Unbelievable.

_“I need to learn to stop talking to myself.”_

That she’d be here. He’d only seen her a few moments, talking to herself. To his picture. And calling him cute. That breath of life in her that he’d felt on his skin just _watching_ …

And the way she’d seemed to have sensed him there.

_“I need to learn to stop talking to myself-” Heels stuttering to a halt, she turned towards the place he’d hidden himself. Breathing in, breathing out; he waited and it wasn’t until the slow tap of her heels started again out of the room, this time wordless, that he allowed himself to move…_

It was obscene. He didn’t believe in fate but if he did, he’d say it had a sense of irony.

Leaving with her after that… there hadn’t been a choice to make.

He’d made sure to first thank Ivan for making a guest feel so unbelievably unwelcome before making his way outside. Into the rain, which was soothing. He wasn’t claustrophobic but the steady climb of the sensation of being closed inside a box; the set of expectations made for him that no longer fit, the words he could already hear whispering from his mother made the rain an island he’d gladly fade back to. If only for a moment.

The need to escape was almost overwhelming.

Then he’d asked Felicity Smoak for a favour that was borderline indecent. It shouldn’t have bothered him, using someone. But it did. And he hadn’t wanted her to feel obligated, which was strange. As if he wanted her to _want_ to. The kind of trust that shouldn’t exist between strangers.

Yet it did. There was something about her, something that told him it was okay.

He didn’t consider ramifications; he trusted his gut. This way he could get an early start on his plans. His family could eat; he didn’t want to be anywhere near them.

But he hadn’t expected her to accept, at least not without a hint of obligation or pity. And then, the shoeless run to her car. Or her stunning offer to spend the night at her home, or the fact that he found her home _preferable_...

Everything from her - one surprise after another.

In the company of someone who didn’t know him, someone who didn’t expect a thing from him, who wouldn’t call him Ollie with all the memories attached; it was easier. A _stranger_ was easier. His family; they were threats.

Felicity Smoak was Felicity Smoak.

…What happened after was beyond his control.

 

* * *

 

 

**04:13am, Felicity’s bedroom**

It was eerie.

If the creepiness of this could be made into music, there’d be a single beat of sound every 3 seconds. No upscale in pitch, no orchestral backers; just a solitary beat of **black**.

The way he stood, his stillness in the dark of her room made her blood pound in her ears.

During the night; the quiet, nightfall to obscurity, evening sounds, the gloom of early morning, rough whispers, harsh cries, pleas- it was her typical standard. There was nothing new about this. There shouldn’t have been anything different; it shouldn’t have put her on edge.

But it did.

 _His eyes…_ they glittered black. He was so _broad_ ; she couldn’t fully see him but it was enough for her to know that, in terms of musculature, Oliver Queen was a blessed man. And a very strong man. _He’s so tall;_ feet apart, indiscernible expression, _really tall_ , large hands,  _those_ _eyes…_

The tension was as taught as a bow string. And she was so still in turn.

His eyes were hers, like steel traps… but he didn’t _see_ her. _Don’t move._ The total lack of recognition on his face made her shiver.  _He doesn’t have a clue where he is._

Wherever he was, it wasn’t there. With her.

There was a dazed edge to his expression andshe tried not to focus on how _bad_ this was quickly becoming.

He’d woken in a strange place, in a room he couldn’t possibly call _home_ , half asleep and it  had probably set him off; sending him to where his demons hide. 

_He’s on the island._

Which meant if she so much as twitched a pinkie finger, he’d probably slice her throat. 

 _Which is a thought I did not need right now._ She didn’t blink, trying to look past the ice there,  _willing_  him to see her.  _Please._

He didn’t want to do this.

She didn’t need to know him past the few hours she’d spent with him to know that this would hurt him later. Maybe he’d internalise it until it became another ring on what she suspected was an already very full belt of horrors.

Sweat prickled on her chest.  _Really? This isn’t even the worst situation I’ve- close that door._ She was agitated and tried to see it differently, as if her houseguest wasn’t standing there, looking every inch the predator she thought him to be;  _it’s like Jurassic Park, with the Tyrannosaurus Rex. No. Sudden. Movements-_

A breath she hadn’t realised she’d needed to leave her, came out as a gasp. _Crap-a-doodle._

His fingers jolted against the knife _._

It was her only warning before he moved. And when he moved, he _really_ moved. But her eyes caught everything.

The point of the knife was the only thing in her line of sight. It was simple enough to grasp it as he swept forwards, throwing himself at her: she caught it between her big toe and long toe, rending it away. It flew into the wall next to her cupboard.

Agile didn’t begin to describe it.

He faltered, but otherwise showed no reaction to being so expeditiously disarmed. Oliver may have reminded her of a wolf but he was as big as a lion. He could very easily enfold her. He wasn’t there in mind; he was in dangerous, foreign places and fighting for his life so he instinctively pressed forwards. Suddenly he was looming, almost lightning fast as he slammed into her-

_‘What did curiosity do to the cat, Miss Smoak?’_

The memory briefly stunned her as his hand gripped just her knee where her joints met and squeezed. His forearm pressed up, against her; his body stilling on top of her covers, knees braced on either side of the indentation she’d made-

-but she’d slipped out, crashing to the floor and immediately righted on the balls of her feet. “ _Oliver_!”

He froze.

His breath came out in giant heaves of his chest. His hands braced on the mattress.

Crouched low by the bed, _make myself the smaller target,_ she whispered to him. “Oliver,”  _repeat his name_ , “Oliver; its Felicity.”  _And ignore your need to incapacitate him._

A small voice inside her flashed the image of him standing there just now and wondered,  _you think you can?_

He still wasn’t moving. _Oh boy_. “Do you remember? We came here because you didn’t want to go back to the Mansion?” She refrained from calling the Queen Mansion ‘home’ because he obviously didn’t see it that way. “You’re in my home.”

When he finally shifted, she stopped talking.

His pupils were blown wide; he looked so distressed. An odd look for a man who’d had trouble being anything but robotic. Still, he was there; he was back, in this moment.

 _Thank God_. She couldn’t help smiling; _there you are_. “Hey.” Her fingers curled into the duvet, the words  _no touching_  flashing like warning lights on him. “You okay?”

As if a bullet had been fired out of a big gun, he scrambled backwards. _Nu uh_. Before he could slip completely from the bed, she jumped back on top of it; nimble and light. She made sure to look anything but freaked out. But the way she was staring at him _may_ have given her away.

He was still breathing like he’d run a marathon and it was stunning really: the aloof, efficient, and lethal man was nowhere to be seen. “I’m sorry.” His voice was a rasp; higher and fearful. “I’m so,  _so_  sorry.” She saw the prey he’d once been, instead of the predator that’d stood solid before her in the mansion. “I wasn’t…” He held himself at the end of her bed, as if prepared to sprint at any moment.

Like a child would.

“I should go.” He shook his head once, still very quiet in voice. “I shouldn’t be here.”

But he didn’t move; rooted to the spot. Weighed down.

It made her _feel_ for the man he was and how far he had to go. “Why are you punishing yourself for something like this?” She asked, breaking the silence.

His head shot up -  _holy whiplash_  - his eyes hitting hers. His breathing slowed;  _he certainly gets over things fast._

But _her_  heart was still hammering behind her rib cage. With every second her chest grew tighter and tighter. _Breathe, just breathe._

“I’m not a doctor or anything.” And if her voice wobbled a tad, it wasn’t easily ignored. “You’ve been through something most couldn’t understand. Did you think you could…” she searched for the right words, “did you think you could return home and everything would be the same as it was?”

His ‘normal’ had been the island of Lian Yu or wherever he’d been the past five years.

“You shouldn’t have to pretend that everything’s fine.” She said softly. “And you shouldn’t worry  when it’s not.”

This new environment; one filled with family, friends and old haunts could be more of a threat than anything else. It was the reason he was pulled from his sleep, the reason why he’d retreated into himself; to a place where he knew how to wield knives.

Which wasn’t at all mysterious, nope. This wasn’t making her want to know more about the supremely attractive Mr Queen, not one bit _and isn’t that a thought I needed to revisit._ She was already burning up.  Wait…  _Oh. Oh no. Not again;_ twice in one day? _What’s wrong with me?_

The tips of her fingers felt heavy.

Strangers as they were, with him sitting there - his index finger and thumb pressed against each other - and the space between them, there was an awareness now that made whatever was rising inside her, demand her attention. Remind her that she was an island unto herself too.

It whispered _._  It lured.

It isn’t that she gets panic attacks. She doesn’t panic at all. It’s an excess of adrenaline, demanding release. It makes her loose it when she has no outlet. Add that to the mystery of Oliver Queen and-

“I didn’t know this would happen.” He was speaking again, a mere murmur. “I’m sorry-”

-She was out of the room before he could finish, leaping from the bed and she was sure she made Oliver topple off the side.

He didn’t make a sound.

She could barely breathe; everything was closing in and turning sideways but she managed to stumble into her bathroom with the door banging back against the wall.

Later, when she looked back on this moment, her hands smacking against the mirror of her cabinet, her breaths choking on nothing, the ringing in her ears and her heartbeat would stand out. Feeling like she’d topple sideways in seconds, her vision blurred and shrank away, but she hurried... 

Her first, second and third reach for her pills failed.  _Come on, come on…_ Like a wave of heat moved from her toes, up to her shoulders and  _down_ she almost fell over.

It was truly frightening to have your brain work faster than it ever has as your body lags further and further behind. She made to grab the glass tumbler next to the sink-

The glass shattered before her fingertips could ghost the surface.

She stared at it, seeing in a slow rewind the spider webs on the glass, the sound of breaking...

_No._

Eyes glued to the now empty space - it had been years, literally _years_ since she’d lost control because she’d tried so hard to keep it inside _-_ she didn’t hear him, didn’t feel his slow - she was probably as strange to him as he was to her right now - watchful progress behind her.

He said something. She didn’t hear a word save for the hum of his decidedly masculine voice.

It was a foreign sound in her house. It made her jump, whirl around, try to see him-

Her vision was cloudy.

_Help-_

The pill bottle fell to the floor and she was sure she whimpered. _Whimpered_.

She  _hated_  this; the control slipping through her fingers, her vision all but darkness.

…Then there was warmth. Water.

She couldn’t see him, but a shot of adrenaline at feeling everything but seeing nothing made her wrench his cautious hand away, jerking blindly from him, forcing her body into the corner wall. But the heat, his skin – it followed her.

 _He_ followed.

_What is he-no. I don’t-_

The hand came back, firmly sliding fast into her hair - no second guessing - gripping it. She pushed against his arm and the play of muscles there sent something far mellower, but still warm, washing over her.

But he moved again and irrational fright lanced up her spine as he bracketed her. She was so incredibly weak, she couldn’t stop him. It wasn’t normal, not for her. This was debilitating. Frightening.

Her forearms smacked against his oddly damp,  _extremely_  solid chest - at any other time ‘wow’ and ‘ooh’ would be free vocal options and she’d happily give a detailed diagnostic of every groove, muscle and curve - as she pushed against him.

This was Oliver Queen. _He_ was doing this. _Why?_

The hand in her hair pulled her head back.  _He needs to stop touching me, he needs to stop, it’s too hot,_ her body couldn’t make its mind up, _and too close,_   _too hot, get back-_

She braced herself to force him back, but he kept her in place. Like steel beneath velvet, his stomach crushed into her arms. Surprise kept her still and before she knew it, a pill was being dropped in her mouth that she automatically swallowed.

It was followed by a thimble of water.  _He’s just trying to help._

Anywhere else, any other time - any other person - she would have hurt him. 

Here, she focused on breathing. It took everything she had, every breath and gasp of air to retract whatever it was inside her that was trying so hard to get out.  _Hold it there._

It took a moment for her to realise that the palm of her left hand was still pressed against skin.

 _Just_  the palm of her hand.

_He must have stepped back. Good._

Thump-thump…. Thump-thump…. Thump-thump….

His heartbeat.

Her hand was resting on his chest, his heart and it was her only point of contact. As if she’d sought it out.

Thump-thump…. Thump-thump…. Thump-thump….

Strong. Vital. Necessary.  _Controlled_.

Her fingers had formed claws, which were digging into him. _Please just… give me a moment here._ In this space.

So the rest of her could just breathe.

Her Road Runner heart beat tried to match his very steady one. In fact, his heart rate hadn’t risen once.

Thump-thump…. Thump-thump…. Thump-thump….

With every breath, his chest lifted her hand. He didn’t move away. Most would have. It must be uncomfortable for him. Living on a deserted island, how long had he gone without physical contact?

Her left hand flexed against his pectoral.

_It’s very… firm._

It made her relax. Completely. He was so present, so very ‘here and now’ and very solid, that it brought everything screaming inside her to a peculiar silence.

He felt strong, enough to-  _No. He isn’t. No one is._  

No one. 

And that had been fine until Mr Elusive came along and made her brain go poof. Before today she’d never seen eyes that could look like that; so painfully blue and closed off.

And he was clammy. Moist. As if he’d ran a fever.

 _He smells… like rain._ He’d had a window open during the night.

_Let. Him. Go._

As her awareness came back, she felt herself shrivel inside. _So embarrassing…_

Her face was mushed into the crevice between the cabinet and the wall where she’d folded in on herself.  Sweat chilled her skin and she was pretty sure she had the worst case of bed head in the history of bed heads. Add to that how every muscle in her body was screaming abuse and she pretty much wanted to hide. Forever.  

 _This is why I’m still single._  “God, I’m so sorry.” She whined.

Her voice was more a rasp than words. She didn’t want to see how he might be looking at her.  _Typical Felicity. Breaking down in front of my boss’s son, a man just returned home from five years on an island, a man who really didn’t need any of this-_

“It… it wasn’t your fault.”

 _What?_ Forehead pressed against wood, she took in a few large gulps of air before opening her eyes and when she did, he spoke again. 

“It’s mine.”  _My fault_ , his eyes seemed to say. They could and did say a lot, those eyes.

He was really puzzling her this time. 

She didn’t focus on anything below his face; her arm was kind of blocking her view of the rest of him. She should remove it, she really should. Yet she didn’t. For reasons. Good ones. Warmth being one of them. How close he was being another, because that level of handsome couldn’t be real. But, _what did he just say?_

“I crossed a line.” He inhaled. “In your room.” His head dipped, as if in contrition. “I don’t understand what just happened but I know I scared you. I do know that.” His Adam’s apple moved in a deep swallow. Otherwise…

Expressionless.

Save for his eyes, which were hard. It wasn’t aimed at her.

But it made for an awkward as heck atmosphere. “You didn’t frighten me.” 

His eyes lost their edge, lost… everything. There was nothing there. 

“You _didn’t_.” She stressed, obstinate, even though she still looked pretty whipped.

The pause stretched until she almost shouted out when he finally said: “You had a panic attack.”

“It wasn’t a panic attack.”

An arched brow called her on it.

“It wasn’t a panic attack.” She repeated, taking a moment because, _god I’m actually going to try to explain the riddle that is me_. “It was adrenaline.”

His eyes flickered away from her, then back again. “What?”

“Excess adrenaline. Clinically, it works the same way panic attacks do and it should give me a few benefits but, hah, no. If I don’t _vent_ , if I don’t,” how to explain the inexplicable, “if I don’t get rid of the surplus then…” She gestured down herself. “This happens. My body shuts down. Like an overload.” Or worse.

She makes things shatter.

His brow fell in favour of a tiny furrow on the bridge of his nose.  _Hmm, I like that. Too much._

“I understand that waking in strange places can do things to a person.” She tried. “I get that.” Straightening, she looked him in the eye. “I should be the one apologising really, for freaking out. And for groping you. I’m  _still_  groping you- _wow_ , I am _so_ sorry.”

She so _wasn’t_.

But, yes; her hand was still pressing against his heartbeat. Needlessly now but…  _That’s enough of that._ Her hand fell, rather sadly really.

_Ugh._

She’d groped him.

But he must have sensed how much she’d needed, for him to stay still like that.

A nervous giggle - she almost reached back to _paw_ at him - which sounded strangled - left her, as his very stoic self followed the movement of her arm. “I’m sorry about touching you.” He was giving her this look: deadly serious and so very untouchable. _Gulp_. “I’m sure anyone would want to touch you, just not me.”  _What?_ “I mean I definitely  _would_  want to but-” His sharp blink -  _how can a blink even be sharp_  - had her backfiring. “But _I_ wouldn’t! Because I’m not that type of person.”  _This amount of mortification shouldn’t be possible._ “Even though y-you are… your…” _Oh wow_. “Glorious.”

Slowly, he blinked. Once. It was heavy.

But he really was.

Gloriously half-naked.

 _Really?_  It had taken her _this_ long to see that he was wearing the sweat pants she’d bought him and  _only_  his sweat pants?  _I lose points on being a woman for that._ Not that it was the specific  _point_  that needed attention here, ahem.

She couldn’t feel at all apologetic for the slip.

He was beautiful.

Not classically perfect or anything ridiculous.

She’d never seen a chest so  _ripped_  in all her life and she’d been around enough men to make her wonder  _why the hell not_. His musculature was astounding. In her clearly woeful experience, she had thought that men didn’t, _couldn’t_ , look like that. Not unless they were staring in a movie. Or they took steroids, which is all sorts of unattractive: it warps the body, makes the neck and chin protrude and elongate, makes veins appear in odd places, deforms facial muscles…

There was nothing about Oliver that said ‘steroids’.

 _100% au natural_. And it would haunt her for many nights to come. _Boy_ , would it haunt her.

The smooth column of his throat, the virile line of his jaw - because every aspect of Oliver screamed male; he’d make Brad Pitt jealous - as it dipped into his collarbone and really, it started there. The collarbone. It was in her line of sight. Emboldened by the distinction of his everything everywhere -  _drool worthy comes directly to mind_  - it cradled and stencilled what she could only describe as a thoroughly worked upon chest-

_-Wait, what is that?_

She knew  _exactly_  what that was; the star shaped insignia decorating his left pectoral.

Solntsevskaya Bratva. The Brotherhood.

The biggest and most powerful crime syndicate of the Russian Mafia… and it was just sitting on his chest.

She stared at it, her mind screaming information at her.

Quick question. How does Oliver Queen, the once and now again future heir of Queen Consolidated, a man who’d been serving a five year sentence for no crime on an island out in the China Sea, come to have the inductive and most infamous Russian criminal family emblem, framed so eloquently on his chest?

It wasn’t something you could just _get_. People were killed for making dumb calls like that: impersonation was punishable by, well, murder. Given that the group (Soln) was existentially so young – founded in the 1980’s by Sergei Mikhailov, _a former waiter believe it or not_ – it was still surprising to have found that they had a reach in Starling City. The Russian Mafia had a history originating back to the Russian Imperial Era of the Tsars in the 1700’s. But it wasn’t until the Soviet Era that the  _Vory V Zakone_ , the ‘Thieves-in-Law’ emerged as leaders of various prison groups in gulags, that an honour code amongst criminals was conceived. A long arm with a solid memory.

In the world there were a few known branches of the organisation such as the Tambov, the Grekov and the Uralmash gangs, but the _Solntsevskaya Bratva_ is Russia’s largest criminal group.

There was one in Starling: a group that operates on the basis of immediate reciprocal favours.

It didn’t make sense to have the mark there, on  _his_  chest. _Oliver Queen’s_ chest. Stupidly close to asking how he’d received it, having being on an island for 5 years, she remembered…

People _lie_.

Especially when the truth was so much more terrifying than the pleasing façade the world around you preferred. A front that shouldn’t have fit but  _did_ , because it was easy - because it made people feel comfortable.  

“Felicity?”

Her gaze jumped to his. “Um…” Her eyes immediately fell back to his chest.  _Guh_.

What could she say? Her mind was blank.

It was a very early morning but a hard chest and a Bratva tattoo will tend to do that to a girl.

“You said I was,” he cleared his throat, “glorious. Just now.”

“Uh.”

Words were impossible when faced with such obscenely cut abdominal muscles beneath a tattoo oddity that made something in her think _dangerous_. ‘Washboard abs’ didn’t cut it. After seeing him in the mansion, she’d been distracted by how broad he was but _this_ … 

_You don’t get a set like that from lying in the sun on a desolate beach somewhere._

Maybe… maybe he might have- _No_ , _it’s crazy_. Absurd. She didn’t know him at all.  _He’s been shipwrecked for years. Head in the now Felicity._

She gave said head a bit of a shake. “I…” She closed her eyes in reproach. “You’re…”

“What?”

Beautiful body. Bratva Tattoo. Oliver Queen.

Her eyes snapped open to find him silently scrutinizing her. “How?” She blurted out, gesturing to the whole of him.  _I had my hand on that; I think I have a type._

“Sorry?”

“I mean…” It didn’t normally take so long for her to get her words out. “Come on seriously?”

His eyes side-lined left to right. “About what?” Like, what’s happening right now?

“You’re body’s  _incredible_.”

“ _What_?”

Like he didn’t know. “It’s like you’ve been photo-shopped on top of yourself.”

He shook his head. “I don’tunderstandwhat you’re saying.”

 _You’ve got to be kidding me_. “I’m telling you, you have the most amazing and  _beautiful_  body I have ever seen in my life and you don’t  _understand_?’”

The brief satisfaction she felt at seeing the his irises flare aquamarine, at seeing his pupils dilate and the way his mouth opened slightly, did  _not_  make up for the doom her words spelled in her head. For the hot blush flushing her cheeks.

_I actually said that. To his face. And we’ll both remember it. Forever._

“I don’t…”

She looked at him. 

His face, though still quite remote, had softened, adding to the somewhat unsure way his eyes flickered about the room. She pressed down on her lip and pointed from his collarbone down to his abdominal v-line in answer.

“I’m damaged.” He said and his expression was sober.

 _Um, huh?_ “Damaged?”

As if she were mentally unstable, he pronounced the two syllables with perfect clarity. “The  _marks_?”

Her mouth opened,  _oh_. “You mean your scars?”

“Yes.” It was quick and to the point. “My scars.”

She stared at him, waiting. “What about them?”

I mean, of course she’d noticed. Hard not to. Super hard, in  _every_  sense of the word,  _God yes._  The man looked like an angel. Or a devil.

And the scars, the marks, the harsh proof of five long years - and she wouldn’t, WOULDN’T think about the fact that the pattern of several of the scars matched the edges of certain _tools_ – away on a _deserted_ island:  _I am not going there. I’m not doing it. I’m not._

The evidence of all he’d been through was painted on his skin. The kind of paint that never washes away. It took her breath away.

But it wasn’t a massive deal. Scars were scars; but what kind of significance did Oliver put on them, she wondered, that made him look at her as if she’d just taken a picture and had it stapled to her forehead?

The dim light in her bathroom had an ethereal effect on his skin, oddly highlighting each and every piece of cruelty exceled down upon him. A brutalised trophy of a harsh five years. Forged in fire and steel. It made him look so strong.

And so… lonely.

Cold.

Yet she got the impression that ‘alone’ might be exactly what he wanted to be right now. “Scars aren’t just signs of damage, Oliver. Well,” she quietly added, and for once she didn’t sound a hurried, mortified mess. “They  _are_ , in the sense that you were injured at some point. But in no way does _scar_ equal to _damage_. They mean you survived.”

He just stared at her.  _Problem_.

There was a chance – a small one – that this was a step _too_ forward of her.

But he spoke again. “So… you were staring?”

He was approximately six feet of ‘wow’, give a girl a break. “Oh, hell yes.” Felicity swore that she almost choked on her own saliva. “It’s-y-your-” _Not. Good_.

“You’re?” He pressed.

“You’re, ah, abs!” She squeaked.

“My  _ah_ abs?”

 _So much frack_ , she gulped. “Did I mention that abs are a girl’s greatest weakness?”

He frowned down at her. 

She bit down on hers.

…And then his eyes just,  _wow_. There was no other word for it. They lit  _up_. Up and up. 

 _Pretty_.

He pressed his lips together like he was forcing back a smile _,_ the sides of his eyes crinkled ever so slightly, _which was very weird_. A brow lifted. Not the sharp ridge she’d become used to; more a soft bump. A ‘ _hey’_. “You’re checking me out?”

_Bu-uh?_

No.

NO.

 _Oh no_ … He asked like he didn’t believe it. Like it was the last thing in world that he’d been expecting. A dying moose noise sounded faintly from her oesophagus. “I need to go die now.” He bit the inside of his cheek and it compelled words from her – never a good idea when Zeus is standing _right there_. “You’re standing there half naked; it’s _impossible_ to ignore how incredibly _hot_ you are.”

Not good.

The exhale he must have been holding in, broke free from him in a raspy gasp.

 _Oh God._ She clapped a hand over her mouth and looked at him, wide eyed at him.

…But then she was smiling at the sheer surprise in his eyes. “In my experience, guys generally don’t like that. Girl’s ignoring their hotness.” She mumbled behind her hand. “Not that I think you’re hot.”

It was pretty obvious that she did.

He dragged a hand over his face as if to wipe away all traces of the _almost_ smile. But his eyes were still bright. He didn’t say another word. What _could_ he say?

“My mouth kind of runs away with me.” She whispered, dropping her hand, still somewhat insecure.

Nodding – agreeing, _oops_ – he just looked at her. Politely. Gently. Waiting.

Lacing her fingers together - gripping them and tying knots – she cleared her throat. “Do you want a coffee?”

He shifted. “It isn’t too early?” That was a yes.

“I’d be getting up in half an hour anyway. I run.” She added at his questioning glance. “Part of the whole adrenalin thing.”

“You aren’t tired?” He quietly asked.

“Nope.” 

“…Okay.”

 

* * *

 

 

**05:54am**

Coffee had been safe.

The safest route of choice for _her_ with the dangerous route being continued discussion of Oliver’s very fine six pack, which had still been on very clear display.

 _Okay,_ he’d said.

They’d gone downstairs to the kitchen and she’d felt his stare, just like in Little Bird’s, on the back of her neck the whole time. It was still there as she’d pulled out a stool for him. As she’d pressed the power button on her coffee machine and waited for it to brew. As she’d passed him one of her many _normal_  - Robin Hood, Star Wars and Looney Tunes, ahem - large mugs and he’d said  _thank you_ , so quietly.

He’d simply… watched her do it.

Forearms and elbows resting on her kitchen island, straight backed with his eyes tracking her, he looked quite relaxed. As if settled by the obvious familiarity she had with her kitchen.

 _And_ he didn’t put his shirt back on, didn’t get it from the guest bedroom, didn’t make _any_ attempt to cover himself whatsoever.

Sat there, sipping her strong coffee - his shoulders, pectorals and upper abdominals all in major fine working order and showing above the pine table top - wasn’t helping her concentrate. Nothing in Felicity’s life had prepared her for seeing a half-naked Oliver Queen.

She’d hidden her face behind her own mug.

Conversation had been little to none, but it had been fine. Comfortable even, them both sitting in the dark; her, in her pyjama pants and t-shirt and him, practically perfect in every way. The sun hadn’t even risen at that point and it wasn’t odd at all that they were both fully awake and aware. Eventually he’d tried to apologise again and had seen how completely un-bothered his host was by the whole thing.

_“I am sorry.”_

_“About what?”_

Her very _‘something happened?’_ expression, told him everything.

Eventually the time came for him to go… because this was far too comfortable, something she could easily get used to even as it chafed awkwardness.

He seemed to feel the same.

The exhale that had left him when she’d mentioned the mansion had sounded like a dead weight and she’d immediately wished that she hadn’t opened her mouth at all. “I should probably go back. Go,” he’d taken in a breath, “go home.”

Swallowing the last of her coffee, she’d whispered back. “Okay.”

She’d offered him her shower, which he accepted and she thought about it. A lot. Too much. Oliver Queen, naked in her apartment. Oliver, wet and oh so dangerous; she’d practically sprinted into the guest bedroom to place his now neatly folded - extremely high priced, ‘make a commoner such as herself nervous as hell’ – jeans and shirt on the bed before running back downstairs and out of his way.

She’d thrown on her running pants and loose sweatshirt: she’d still go for her run. And after the morning’s performance… well, he’d seen her bedhead. And her complete freak-out. If there was a chance he’d have given her a _first_ look, never mind a second in real life, she’d just kyboshed it.

Hair up in a loose bun, Felicity pulled up outside the second gate of the Queen Mansion.

The rain had finally ceased, giving everything a damp, abject look that she kind of liked but also kind of didn’t. It both cleansed the world and drowned it. And though the car ride to the Mansion had been much less awkward than the journey from it, the atmosphere inside the vehicle now resembled the bleakness from outside.

Again, he was the cause of this. 

It wasn’t that he looked miserable; he truly didn’t. Again, he didn’t seem anything. There was no enthusiasm, no contentment at being near his family, no anxious twitching, and no deliberate drumming of fingers against dashboards… A big fat nothing.

And unlike the previous evening, he wasn’t even observing his environment, wasn’t taking in every inch and aspect of her too clean and tidy car.

Sometimes he’d look at her. As if he were wondering why she was doing any of this at all. It was a definite improvement over apathy. But the brief glances – like an ADHD imperative – were few and far between. Oliver Queen was not, by any definition, an open book, window or doorway. He was 100% closed off to the world _and_ to her, even more so than the night before. He simply looked outside the front window of her car; seeing nothing but the world inside his head.

The moment they’d both taken their seats, he’d shut down. Any glimpse of the man she’d been having coffee with vanished. She’d ignored it, backing out of her parking space, dawn not even a glint on the skyline. October in Starling usually.

 _Maybe he’s just deep in thought_.  

“Well, here we are.”

“Here we are.” He reiterated.

No. Emotion.

And he made no move to get out of car.

 _Okay_. It was slightly uncomfortable now. Shouldn’t he _want_ to see the people he’d left behind? Even if it was just to demonstrate how not-alright he might be right now. 

I mean really, what was the modus operandi for returning from the dead?

He was staring out at the Mansion and Felicity wanted so much to just say the right thing for once instead of babble incessantly. Then, like the proverbial light bulb, an idea came to mind. One she really should have considered first before offering.  

“Here.” Reaching behind her – literally arching like some gone with the wind ballerina – she pulled out a rucksack from under the backseat and started rooting.

He followed her; watching as she pulled out a phone.

“It’s a burner phone.” She explained and his eyes slammed back up into hers.  _That’s going to take some getting used to_ ; she cleared her throat “It’s my back-up. I have back-ups for my back-ups: I’m neurotically thorough.” Something in his face unstiffened.  _Point to me!_ “My details are on there. The point being that if you, er... if you need anything or if you want to talk to a complete stranger,” She said, trying to make a joke out of it, “one who wouldn’t judge anything you say, just an easy ear or even if you just want a place to hide for a while,” She licked her lips at how he wasn’t giving her  _anything_  in response. “Give me a call.” She shrugged. “Or, you know, if you just want another pear.”

Silence…

Then his hand lifted, his eyes flickering from the phone to her face as he slowly took it. “I don’t know,” he finally muttered, “those persimmons kind of grew on me.”

Sad or not, she practically beamed at him. _Finally_.

He still looked unsure, as he gestured at the phone. “Are you sure?”

His thoughtfulness surprised her. Seriously, 5 years on an island. Alone. How was he so adjusted? It made her worry for him.

It made her want to know more.

“Yeah.” She said, still smiling. “It’s one way to keep secrets.” An untraceable phone.

He looked at her… because that wasn’t what you were _supposed_ to say.

Sliding gracefully from her car, he bent before closing the door and locked eyes with her. “Thank you Felicity.”

“You’re welcome… Oliver.”

It would be hours later before she’d realise the knife she’d plucked from his grip with her toes – the one that had stuck in the wall in her bedroom – was gone.

 


	5. Question Everything. Learn Something. Answer Nothing. (Euripides)

** **

 

**Arrowhead Point, Tudor’s Way**

_C_ hecking the rear-view mirror, she wondered why.

 _Why would I even do that?_ Give her spare  _untraceable_  Smartphone - calling it a Smartphone didn’t cut it either - with top of the line specs – unable to help herself she’d tampered with it, _obviously, it’s me_ \- to Oliver Queen, returnee.

It was a way to contact her too, a way in when it was probably the first and last time she’d ever talk to Robert Queen’s son.

In her head, it was a way of making sure he’d be fine, that he had what he needed. 

She gave herself a mental shake. She couldn’t allow herself time to commit to this; she had more important matters to attend to.

_Like James Holder._

She needed to find the policeman who she’d given Adam Hunt’s profile to. Whichever DA took his case would have their hands full. But Felicity needed to make sure it’d be worth it. That she hadn’t canvassed the man’s database during a late at night - or very early morning – stealth run, where she’d slipped a ‘worm’ onto his personal hard drive in his private office, situated in his business building where all his dirty secrets were idiotically stored, for nothing.

And tonight… tonight she had an appointment she couldn’t miss. With Martin Summers: the owner and CEO of Starling City Port. A man who took  _bribes_  - who was still between his current payoff - from the Chinese Triad, who protected their  _investment_ , to bring in drugs (Cocaine, Cannabis, Meth and Heroine) to Starling City. _This_ she’d discovered after monitoring the Harbour traffic.

Carlos Vuentes had, on occasion, used the same Port for his trade. The trafficking of young boys.

And now he was in jail.

Her lips curled...

_Let’s get to work._

 

* * *

 

 

**Merlyn Mansion, Tommy’s bedroom: 7am**

Tommy Merlyn stared up at the ceiling.

He was  _thinking_. A surprising – perhaps dangerous - pastime for him.

He’d promised himself he’d be good. Or at least he’d try to be; he’d  _kind_  of behave and sort of,  _maybe_ , slow down - just a tad.

Last night? He came to a full and complete stop. He was stunned with himself. _I don’t know what happened._

After a late dinner with the Queen family, his first instinct had been to be traditional.

Go to a bar.

Any bar. Pick up a girl, take it from there -  _and by there I mean me and by me I mean ‘with a girl’s hands on my junk’._ The excitement, the joy, the anxiety and that thimble full of doubt he’d felt had surged through him making sleep all but impossible.

His best friend was back.  _Back from the dead!_ It was unreal! It had to call for some kind of celebration – he was already thinking places, booze, deciding which gorgeous face Oliver would want to bang for the evening because in Tommy’s mind, there was no way Oliver wouldn’t want to.

 _He hasn’t had sex in five years, Jesus Christ; of course he wants to_. A long night of banging which girl, when and where followed by a greasy breakfast with his best pal. Tommy would take care of it.

 _But Ollie_ … he’d been so quiet.

_That was normal right? Maybe he just needed to loosen up._

Breathing deeply, his arms moved to rest behind his head on the pillow. _Yeah, he was probably tired from those tests at the hospital; the few times we’d been there in the past we’d never slept. Noooo_ , they’d played with the  **nurses**. He grinned at the memory of Ollie (who’d had one hell of a shiner) and Nurse Sweet –  _honest to God; that was her name_  – locking the closet door behind them as he in turn, shut the blinders around his bedside so that Mellissa ‘Whoever’ could get down on her knees.

_Good times._

So it pretty much cinched it for Tommy: Oliver needed an orgasm. Or twelve.

But what if he didn’t want random -  _though_   _steaming hot_  - girl, number 234?

_What if he wanted Laurel?_

This was where the doubt trickled in.

As much as ‘Ollie the return’ was the same, he was also… different. Still a charming player -  _like me_  – but… I don’t know. Mellower. More… brooding?  _Islands will do that to you_. But girls like brooding. And what if that was also something Laurel Lance liked now? In the past, Laurel had been a movie and pizza kind of gal, a ‘long walks after you spend your hours holding hands and necking as you talk and talk and talk before sex’ kind of girlfriend. Someone who liked the occasional glass of Chardonnay because it made her feel mature and wining and dining at  _the_  most popular restaurants in the city. She’d also liked cute guys giving her cute things and being, all in all, cute themselves.

What if now, Miss Lance -  _Miss ‘Just this once, it’ll never happen again Thomas Merlyn’ Lance_ - preferred hot and brooding? Like the newly returned from the dead, suddenly much larger in person than Tommy remembered, Oliver Queen.  _He’s always been a handsome bastard, second only to me of course; as the two richest, most eligible bachelors in Starling City, we fit the cover of Time magazine quite nicely if I do say so myself_. With his new haircut - his pre-island surfer, lazy rich guy look had held great appeal with  _a lot_ of girls in their Alma Mata’s – and deep, blue eyed gaze -  _I‘ve never seen Ollie last so long without blinking before_ \- Oliver was more the heir apparent than ever.

It was a kind of magnetism that Thomas Merlyn didn’t possess. And maybe it was something Laurel could like now.

Or, at least he would think that if he didn’t know just how much –  _or how little_  – Laurel now thought of Oliver.  _Her anger is very much part of who she’s become_. That was another hurdle. Anger, not necessarily in Tommy’s experience but from certain things he’d read, could be counted as a form of passion. What if her issues with his best friend caused a spark, one that could re-ignite the flames that had once been there –  _I should probably put the Mills and Boon away before Ollie sees them_  – and voila! ‘Lauriver’ are once again the item to be. Or beat.

Tommy closed his eyes against the possibility.

His second instinct,  _last night_ , had actually been to go to her. To Laurel.

Once the bar crawl and pull became a bust - he hadn’t felt so uninspired in the pant department in…  _ever_  - he’d almost made it to her apartment before he remembered that, they weren’t together. ‘Friends with the occasional benefits’ yes, but, together? Sadly, no.

It wasn’t for lack of trying.

_“Remember.” She whispered against his mouth, her front against his with the side of the table they’d been sitting at, now against their thighs as her hands pulled his unbuttoned shirt down over his arms. “This can’t-”_

_He pressed a hard kiss against her words. “Can’t happen again. I know.”_

_Her eyes stared into his and he liked what he saw there. Beauty. Confidence. Passion. Promise. Moving in, he travelled slow, sweet kisses over her cheeks and down her throat as his thumbs stroked over her breasts; her nipples hard under her bra. The palms of her hands talked sex and all the things that clouded the mind, taking him away from the crappy life he lived, as they snaked down his back, to his pants…_

_Her hands raced his to his belt buckle, licking his lower lip as she did so before concentrating on freeing him completely. Then his eyes closed as she began to work him, a hand down his boxers, instinct taking over as he started undoing the clip of her trousers._

_He just… he needed her. Right now._

_And she whimpered, “Never again,” in that incredibly sexy tone – I’ll never forget it, it’ll haunt my dreams kind of sexy – one he’d never heard from her before, when Tommy cupped her crotch over her panties._

It had been fast. Too fast; he’d almost blown his load but luckily she’d been as on edge as he, so he hadn’t appeared _quite_ so much like a 15 year old virgin. And, thankfully, the first time wasn’t the last. Far from it. And she’d instigated it.

_“I want to lose myself too.” She softly murmured, holding his face between her palms as she leaned in to kiss him._

Yet, knowing this was actually what stopped him from knocking on her door. It had been a year since their last screw –  _her words not mine_  – their escapades having halted when she landed a job at CNRI and he knew it would take  _more_ ; so much more than him looking at her with eyes that screamed ‘I’m yours’, than an offer of a few hours of blissful release. They’d both moved past simply needing each other in the moment. Or rather,  _he_  had. He didn’t know where Laurel stood. And it made him see that he wanted much more too.

He wanted  _her_. Just her. All the time. A relationship. Because he didn’t just see Laurel as a means to an amazing orgasm: he saw his future. In her, with her, around her.

The third problem?

It was a betrayal. Bro’s before hoes.

She was his best friend’s girl.  _I mean, sure, Ollie screwed her sister and there’s no apology that can make up for that,_ but… she wasn’t his only transgression.

He found it hard to believe that Laurel hadn’t known, at least in some small way, about Oliver’s wanderlust. Everybody else on the planet knew about it. Tommy himself had been born with an eye for girls with talented tongues and wrists and he’d all but pushed Ollie towards them too –  _with me in tow, wrapped in a shiny red bow_  – all the while knowing that Ollie was with Laurel; Tommy’s only female friend at the time.  _Hah; my only female friend ever._

In the past, they hadn’t been all that close. Thing’s changed, he supposed.

At dinner the previous night - he’d kept in touch with Moira and Thea - it‘d been like riding a bike, only…  _Ollie didn’t once mention Laurel._ He’d been waiting for it. _I didn’t bring her up either. And Ollie didn’t really talk about anything._ It had all been Tommy.

He didn’t know what to do.

Well, he  _did_  know. He just didn’t want to.

First, he had to tell Ollie that he’d cheated. Second… he had to step aside. If Ollie wanted to see if the spark was still present and if Laurel agreed, then Tommy would have to let them, watching from a distance. Like he’d always done.

And that might kill him.

 _Good things would come and soon,_ Tommy thought as he sat up, reaching for his mobile. _They always did when Ollie was around._

Tommy Merlyn was a fool.

 

* * *

 

 

**Queen Mansion, 08:10, Lounge**

“Death-in-absentia usually occurs automatically after seven years. However in cases of imminent peril – a boat accident in the China sea, for example – the court will grant a petitioner’s request to grant the missing person deceased sooner.”

Moira Queen’s highly capable – and highly well paid – lawyer couldn’t have addressed a less absorbed individual. Wanting Oliver to regain the Queen entitlement and all that came with it was a step, Moira had perceived, necessary to her son’s re-integration to the social world the Queen’s inhabited. But the underlying message was heard loud and clear: Oliver was to regain - though he’d never before held a position within his family’s company - a place of leadership at Queen Consolidated.

The Lawyer – a middle aged man in a crisp blue suit - took a moment to side-eye said heir and frowned at the sheer lack of attention Mr Queen was giving him. The 27 year old was playing with… a phone? Sat on one of the sofa’s he was absorbed with the touch screen motions, as if they fascinated him. “We’ll… delve into the quagmire of ownership position in light of your disappearance when the court hearing has passed.”

To say the tension took a turn for awkward – for anyone other than Oliver - was an understatement.

Yes: the Board of Directors for the company had voted – unanimously – on declaring both Robert Queen and his son deceased just one year after the sinking of the Queen’s Gambit. Moira and Walter had both been members of that board. They’d both signed the agreement.

Passing an uneasy glance to his amazingly unruffled wife - though he knew Moira well enough to know that she worked best by hiding all her misgivings behind a mask of cool composure, at times even from him – Walter took a step towards his stepson.  _Stepson_. A word he never thought he’d have to bring up in civil conversation.  _Never say never_. “Oliver, I hope you understand: in light of you and your father’s…  _absence,_  it was necessary to bring control of the company under the board of directors.”

Oliver gave them no response.

_This wasn’t a good idea._

It wasn’t to Walter. Standing still in the lounge, he watched as a casually dressed Oliver concentrated, staring down at the black mobile. Brow quirking when the application he pushed a thumb against lit up the screen like a Christmas tree, Oliver titled his head and Walter figured he’d heard every word.

He just hadn’t considered it important enough to react to.

Walter honestly couldn’t blame him.  _Why couldn’t this have waited a few more days? At least until he’d fallen back into the world again._ How Oliver was treating the phone was a sign of this. When Oliver and Robert had set sail on the Queen’s Gambit, touchscreen mobiles were brand new vehicles that he probably hadn’t considered worthy of attention.

Originally Walter had been… worried was one word to use. Hesitant was another.

Oliver’s behaviour since stepping into the Mansion had been expected but still, Walter had hoped for more. He’d predicted less of Oliver on the grounds he’d been so long removed from society. Yet he’d also hoped for more from him too. In truth, he hadn’t known really what would happen. None of them had.  How was one supposed to act around a man just returned from being shipwrecked?

Oliver’s remarks at dinner had increased his concern: not that he would be against Oliver taking a position in the company – in fact in many ways the idea was a pleasant one, promoting familial cohesion - but with his reputation, or rather what it had _once_ been, Walter had been sure that in a matter of months, Oliver could run the company down to the ground. Or worse, especially in his _condition_ , change its morality.

But then Felicity Smoak had given him pause. She always did.

_“Sir, there isn’t exactly a precedent for this. He’s spent five years alone and away from everything…Just from the elapsed time by itself I’d have to wonder if anybody would be or act the same way as they once did.”_

It wasn’t fair to judge a man, regardless of family or entitlement or even by where they’d spent the last five years. If a stranger could appreciate the complexities of Oliver Queen without having knoen him, surely Walter could give him as much latitude and time as needed for him to adapt.  _Expectations aren’t really going to help with him,_  she’d said.

 _No, they wouldn’t_ , he agreed.

Unfortunately Moira and Thea had their pre-existing images of Oliver built. It was a road that could lead to heartbreak. And he wasn’t sure he could stop its progress.

“Congratulations: you’re alive.”

Coming out of his revere, Walter blinked to find Moira had finally managed to draw Oliver’s attention away from the phone to sign the document cementing his return to the Queen family lifestyle. “You’ll still have to attend the court hearing next week to make things official, but this document allows you access, once again, to your personal trust fund, stock holdings etcetera.” The lawyer announed, immediately packing up his briefcase, standing and shaking Walter’s and Moira’s hands.

The satisfied expression on Moira’s face told Walter everything: she was already working on bringing Oliver into the fold. What Mrs Moira Queen-Steele wanted, she got.

Yet the feeling in his stomach – and the way Oliver had managed to swiftly leave the room on the heels of the lawyer - told him she wouldn’t get what she wanted this time.

* * *

 

 

**09:47am, two streets from CNRI**

_Swiping a potato cube – it didn’t register that Oliver’s breakfast was untouched – he popped it in his mouth, eyes closing at the taste. “God, I miss having breakfast here. Raisa’s cooking is as phenomenal as ever.”_

_“You stopped?” Oliver asked, a frown on his otherwise passive face as he shrugged on a leather jacket; fast delivery saved lives in the Queen mansion._

_“Oh, I still come over,” Tommy admitted, scooping up a few more cubes, “but it was later. Like, night. And not as often as I probably should have.” He added with a wince._

_The first couple of years after losing Oliver, losing Robert Queen - the father figure filling in for Tommy’s sad excuse of a dad - Tommy rarely stepped foot inside the mansion. The first time, he remembered, had been during a tequila induced haze about 8 months after the accident._

_Oliver looked at him._

_It was the eeriest thing about ‘new Ollie’ for Tommy: the silence._

_“So!” Clapping his hands together, Tommy grinned; no chick flick moments here. “First day back; where does Oliver Queen want to go first?”_

_“I don’t really…”_

_“Not a problem! I shall compensate. By the day’s end Ollie, you’ll remember_ exactly _what you missed about Starling.” He finished with an eyebrow wiggle._

 _Shaking his head, Oliver smiled. Wide. A beaming thing, wider than Tommy remembered but,_ whatever _. It was good to see. “There is something I want to do.” He said as they both stepped beyond the mansion doors._

_Grinning, Tommy twisted, walking backwards, watching Ollie’s smirk in return - like the dude was about to compete with him in a round of ‘which girl will do what first’. “Let me guess: meaningless sex? Drinks at The Station? Steaks at the Palm-”_

_“I need to see Laurel.”_

Of course.

It had been a bad idea from the start.  _Such a bad idea._ With them walking away from the scene of the crime, he supposed it didn’t matter now. Laurel hadn’t given the poor guy an inch.

They didn’t speak until they were out of sight of CNRI.  _The closest parking space to the Legal Aid office, Jesus._ “So we got  _that_  out of the way. Good call,”  _major fuck up_ , “now we’re ready to make up for some lost time.”

Oliver didn’t say a word. Again. His face was a blank canvass. A nugget of worry wormed its way into Tommy’s gut every time he saw it like that. That wasn’t Ollie. Not Ollie Queen. He’d _never_ been the stoic, expressionless type, not before. But he supposed he had a lot to think about.

They’d been. They’d seen. They’d conquered. Right?

Wrong.

 _Oliver had wanted to see her. And it had gone so smoothly_.  _Hah, right_.

It had been… ‘Awkward’ was a good word but ‘brutal’ was the operative one. Laurel hadn’t held back. Now his best friend was subdued. In actuality, Tommy hadn’t thought it would go well anyway; most of him had hoped he’d be wrong and a small part of him – a part he refused to acknowledge even now - was thankful he was right.

Just minutes before seeing her it’d been normal: wonderfully normal. They’d joked. Oliver had asked Tommy if he’d gotten lucky at his  _own_  funeral.  _There’s my best friend; priorities on the prize._  They’d even talked about the party. Sort of. He’d be taking care of everything after all; it would be like old times.

Now he was just trying to make Ollie feel better. He _deserved_ to feel better.

“Come on Ollie; lets-”

But then everything went to hell and Tommy barely witnessed it.

He didn’t see much.

First the black van speeding towards them, trapping them in the alleyway they’d parked in. _Stupid_. Then there was a sharp pain in his neck and falling was all Tommy could concentrate on before… black.

So he missed Oliver’s reaction.

That being, no reaction. He missed the perfect calm on him.

Missed the look on his face as the men with grotesque masks poured out of the van, shooting a passing bystander dead in his tracks. Didn’t see ‘Ollie’.

Didn’t see  _him_. Not at all.

He was nowhere to be found.

Never would he be.

* * *

 

 

**CNRI, Legal Aid Office**

Sitting at her desk, staring unseeingly at a monitor, Laurel felt better and worse all at once.

_“Hello Laurel.”_

He’d come to see her. Voluntarily. And she’d spoken to him, to Oliver Queen. To Ollie.

 _‘She was my sister.’_ She’d told him. ‘ _I couldn’t be angry at her because she was dead. I couldn’t grieve because I was so angry: that’s what happens when your sister dies whilst screwing your boyfriend.’_

So silent, he’d simply looked at her. And it hadn’t helped; he was even more handsome than she remembered – pretty and toned - and she’d hated herself, and him, for noticing. For having to look away more than once as she spoke. _‘We buried an empty coffin… because her body was at the bottom of the ocean where_ you _left her. It should have been you.’_

It had felt _amazing_ getting that out. Finally. The venting, the wordsreaching his ears for the first time since the previous hundred times she’d thought it in the past few hours. In years. Letting him know. Pushing that on him and revelling in it as he flinched.

_‘I know it’s too late to say it but I’m sorry.’_

He was sorry. Oh, was he now? Well sorry. Didn’t. Cut. It.

_‘So am I. I wish you’d rot in hell a whole lot longer than five years.’_

_It’s all your fault._

It had felt so good.

And so… not good.

It hadn’t been until she was sat at her desk that she realised she’d been waiting for two things she hadn’t received. The first was for her to feel some sort of closure in letting him know how much he’d hurt her by doing what he did; by taking Sara, by leaving on the Queen’s Gambit with her, by dying… then by not dying when Sara had. For bringing everything she hadn’t shut the door on, but had pretended she had, back to the surface.

_How dare he just stand there like that?_

Because the second thing she’d been waiting for was… for  _more_. More from him. More than an apology.

Laurel realised - and she wasn’t proud of it – that she’d been waiting for him to mend her. When she didn’t even know she needed mending –  _I don’t_  – and would never admit to it. And even though she didn’t want it or need it, need  _him_ ; even though she’d told herself ‘never again’, she’d wanted him to _want_  her. Again. To want to be with her. And to show her that he did. To beg for a second chance, to ask her to let him make it right.

And she’d say no, right?  _Of course I would_. And it would have felt even better than telling him that it should have been him and not Sara who’d died. But he hadn’t. And it had made her speak a little of what she’d been carrying all this time.

 _Let him carry that weight_.  _He doesn’t understand; he didn’t know what it was like to be betrayed. To be left behind. To want more and never get it._

Tunnel vision was an epidemic in the Lance family.

 _And_  in the Queen family. Both on the same side of a coin that was already tipping.

**11:00am; Old Warehouse District**

_Like liquid fire…_

The crude electric discharge of a taser had been like coming home. It was familiar. It was five years of the ‘the same’.

Finally, he felt like himself. 24 hours back in Starling had felt like 24 days.

Stood very still he took a deep breath, feeling his lungs expand and contract.

He’d been fast but he could be faster. He  _would_  be faster. The mask had been removed. Having Tommy unconscious made things much easier. They’d tried to question him, those men; the  _boys_  in the masks. There had been three.

Then two.

Then one.

Then silence.

The taser he’d taken from the talker of the group had meant little after they’d used it on him. It simply angered the wolf.

_‘Mr Queen! Did your father survive the accident? Did he tell you anything?’_

A link.

A living breathing link. To a list that should never have been created.

Too bad he’d had to cut them down.

Then again, chances were that they were just pawns in a long line of them. Young men desperate for cash or needing that one-shot chance of acceptance into the ranks of a local gang.

But it gave Oliver room to vent and be himself for a few precious seconds. No matter how sickening that thought was. He knew it would be difficult, returning. Knowing that each member of his family would want him to be near, that Tommy would want to do their usual routine.

Seeing Laurel again… and her words, everything she had the right to say, everything he’d expected her to say and yet also  _hadn’t_  expected; words he deserved but wished he’d never  _had_  to hear. He’d thought that… maybe enough time had gone by that Laurel would simply see him with indifference. It would be preferable… Maybe. That she would have moved forwards. He’d hoped for it. But she hadn’t. She was just as much stuck in the past as he was changed by it. And oh, how he wished he could go back and fix it.

It made things difficult for him; clouding his thoughts, something he presently didn’t want or need. For now, he could only let IT go.

It had surprised him how easy that was.

After escaping the zip cuffs, the so-called ‘torturer’ – a kid probably bought by powerful people who cared little for street punks - died first. Using the legs of the chair Oliver had been sitting on as truncheons, he killed the kid with the pistol second.

And, a Gailil 5.56 in the hands of a coward – because it’s always either the strongest member or the coward who carries the biggest gun – was little more than a toy; a toy that could kill, but still a toy. It simply meant he’d have to let the man run out of bullets.

He did. Didn’t even aim. Then he died too.

Killing people, whether at random or discriminatory, wasn’t new territory for Oliver, but killing people in Starling? It made him edgy. Wary. There was a monster on the loose and he was a new and different animal.

_‘The rich folks of Starling tend to ignore the general degeneration of an integral part of their city… Pretty sure some of them play a hand in making it worse.’_

It was a bitter pill to swallow, but an accurate one.

And the choke; the undeniable rattle of life leaving a body was still fresh - the sound of gunfire pounding through the warehouse still present in his ears, the violence of the attack and the fluidity of his response. It echoed through him, singing in his blood, this purpose of his. This talent he’d cultivated, the knowledge both necessary and desperately guilt ridden sang in his veins and the need to  _begin_  once again played him like a fiddle.

Walking, as if he’d simply been taking a stroll rather than hunting a criminal like an animal, Oliver moved closer to where Tommy lay, were he was waking up and he worked to change the expression on his face to something markedly more… upset? Distressed? He didn’t know how to be afraid for himself anymore. He’d long forgotten. It was difficult to mask himself again.

But it didn’t really matter. He just had to get through it.

He had an appointment to make after the inevitable police questioning in the Little Odessa section of Starling. A Russian Bodega (the Russian Black Market) where he would exchange the considerable selection of diamonds he’d discovered years ago was in his inheritance, for cash. Lots of it. Which he would use to secretly buy the Queen Industrial Shipping Factory.

…The name of the realtor would be a little more difficult to acquire.

 

* * *

 

 

**Queen Consolidated**

The day just hadn’t stopped giving...

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered to herself – as she often did - walking a fast pace down the main corridor of the 21st floor, “the whole thing: all of it. From Mr ABS-GALORE Queen, to Miss Ambitious Lance to,” her eyes looked to the heavens, “ _this_.”

Backtrack in 3, 2, 1…

Her morning’s run, though late - thanks to whirlwinds with names beginning with O and ending in R - had lasted a while. It  _had_  to.

Yes, it  _was_  ridiculous but everything felt different now. _Commence major eye roll._

Of course Felicity would never - could never,  _nu uh_  - be one of  _those_  women: the type who, once they’ve met a man, fall all over themselves,  _not that I’ve ever needed help in making a fool out of myself, this morning being a testament to that_ ,  and fail to ever fully pick themselves back up.

_Not. Happening._

But Oliver Queen was a mystery. Felicity hated mysteries -  _I know; the irony should knock me over_. And mysteries needed to be solved. By the right people. The right person. Regardless of the outcome.  _I’m falling back into old, very dangerous habits here_ …

But it had been a while since something had been interesting enough for her to look outside her own life. Not that she didn’t care about others. It was just that her extracurricular activities left little room –  _left ZERO room_  – for her to engage elsewhere. Socially or otherwise. Just for herself.

She’d always been fine with that.  _But I never expected…_

The day bore so many fruits: some withered others poisonous, few ripe and resplendent.

First fruit in the basket?

Some of the fires in the Glades had been a deliberate sabotage. She’d been expecting it but, she wished she’d been wrong.

Those houses sat close to the South side of Tudor’s way, a quieter area of the Glades.

She’d taken a look during her run, going straight through the corner of Seventh and Low, right to where at least three of the fires had sprang and after investigating it was clear: the damage to these was more extensive than the others. There were multiple points of origin and the pattern of the fire was unpredictable. The fire alarms installed by Holder Corporation had been faulty, but faulty fire alarms didn’t start fires. They just didn’t warn you of them.

A select group of the initial fires were all instigated with a long piece of rope, attached to ignition fuel. In the houses targeted there were no survivors. All these houses had been fairly close to each other.

The second piece of fruit in her basket this morning?

Just after 10:00am, Ned Stole - her condescending, ass-hat of a supervisor - had been fired. A double act of armed security men came in to escort him downstairs where the police had been waiting for him. Apparently, embezzling was a talent he’d been honing _long_ before his final debut at QC. He’d passed her on his way out, sweaty-browed and wide-eyed but he hadn’t thought anything of, hadn’t considered that this might be her.

Though happy to be rid of the incompetent misogynist, there were people in the world who do far worse and yet receive little, if any, punishment. _There are things that I do, that go without chastisement._

Time to move on. There was bigger fish to fry.

Penalising John Holder, CEO of Holder Incorporated, was one of those fish.

A slip of documents, an online anonymous file, a cop to send it to and presto; prison.

For five seconds life was… well,  _competent_. Until fruit in the basket, number  _3_  arrived.

Did you know that to be a prosecutor, in any town or city or country, is to be considered the chief legal representative of the law in that particular place?

And it is required of all law courts to hire a competent,  _official_  member of the judicial system’s squadron of defence attorneys for any case involving corporate crime. Preferably an individual who has, prior to sentencing a man such as Adam Hunt, prosecuted against high ranking, hardened members of the criminal underworld without bowing to bribes, threats or coercions of any kind.

Sometime that morning, Felicity had been rendered mute after discovering with a painfully simple online search – disturbingly, it would be across every news channel this time tomorrow - that Miss Laurel Lance, a Legal Aid Attorney at CNRI (City Necessary Resources Initiative), would be taking the case as prosecutor against Adam Hunt and - _so_ much worse - his pet viper of a Lawyer, Rob Stellart.

Mouth open, she’d just sat there as the notification blared in bold across her monitor from a newsletter forum.  _No._

Teresa Tanning had been scrambling on all cylinders about Ned’s sack before rambling - the woman bounced back with a precision so acute it was almost an art form - about the week’s lunch rota before walking off in what looked like ten inch heels, completely missing how Felicity hadn’t taken in a single word.

Laurel Lance.

_As in the ex-girlfriend of one returnee from the dead, Mr Oliver Queen?_

Disbelieving -  _because the current Lieutenant of Starling City’s Police department, Dave Ellet, couldn’t be that stupid_  - she clicked on the photo link posted next to the report… and closed her eyes when the worst was confirmed.

** Adam Hunt: Federal Indictment by Laurel Lance for Prosecutor **

Front. Page. News.

_Zero sense of self-preservation._

It blared on CNN, overhead of what would have been a quaint picture of the woman if it weren’t so obvious she’d been asked to stand before CNRI’s headquarters situated behind her – as if she represented the building - as she lived out the hand-on-hips-pose with classic authority.

The picture was recent too,  _as is the coat of paint. Who’s the new funder?_ A quick search confirmed it. _For the love of- a retirement home?_ That wouldn’t last long. Even with their brief flush of the green stuff from Wayne Enterprises.  _This is ballsy, even for them._

It answered a few raised questions: if a legal aid (an assistance centre for individuals who can’t afford to hire private solicitors) is granted special funding it may lead them to reach for higher ground. For business growth and professional status. The more respect granted to them, the more publicity they’d garner, the more funding would continue to rise and roll in their favour. 

It would explain why one of their youngest, least experienced attorney’s had taken such a massively publicised case.

With  _zero_  prior wins in Starling’s Royal Court.

What followed Miss Lance’s picture was an explicit bio of all her achievements to date – there weren’t many that stood out in the legal world since that she’d only ever worked for small time offices – where she lived,  _might as well post blueprints of her apartment,_  who she worked for, and the entirety of her resume.  _A bull’s-eye if there ever was one._ A very clear target. _And not a very smart move for the officer in charge of the investigation._

“I passed it to Hilton,” the first time she’d ever done so personally – and now the last, “he passes it the Police Chief who hands it over to a charity initiative; what are they playing at?” She whispered to no one, shaking her head.

She hadn’t exactly been impressed that they’d handed it to CNRI in the first place but they’d recently taken to doing just that. Adam Hunt was a threat to the underdogs, to those who haven’t the means to fight for themselves in the court of law, so it made sense that it was sent straight to their sympathisers. So, no. She hadn’t been pleased; but she’d understood.

However, she’d have thought that they’d have had the mind to pass it to a lawyer of some standing and Felicity knew that several members of CNRI had an extensive history in the Supreme Court of Justice, one or two having presided over cases in Washington…

Having office space situated away from the majority of her colleagues gave her privacy, which meant Felicity could move the cursor on screen over to her self-styled programme and slip quietly behind enemy lines - though she wasn’t necessarily an enemy of law enforcement, at least not lately - through the worryingly weak security wall for case files in the SCPD and took a look.

_Adam Hunt, Adam…Hunt. Got it! So, the officer in charge would be… yep; Hilton, who handed it off to Dave Ellet- wait, what is that?_

She’d skimmed over a page of police jargon before hitting a paragraph that made her blink, hard.

_“…As an offer of friendship between inter-relating parties and a symbol of our combined efforts to restore peace, I have granted Detective Quentin Lance’s request to have his daughter, an attorney with one of our sister agencies, placed as lead prosecutor in the case for Adam Hunt. He has assured me that her skill and experience will lead to a clear win for us all.”_

_This is a joke, right?_ There were too many threads to pluck in that statement.

Because… nepotism?

 _They wouldn’t._ It was ridiculous.

Regardless of Laurel Lance’s acclaimed efficacy, such an inexperienced attorney should not be in charge of a case of this magnitude. She wasn’t even a full Defence Attorney; the woman had spent one year,  _one_ , with CNRI and before that, a measly six months as a voluntary incident worker at some dilapidated solicitor’s office (she’d done a brief background check) that centred on taking cases involving abused men and women. It didn’t matter how much gumption or ambition she possessed; it would only see her at the bottom of the river rather than in the win.

_I won’t even get started on the fact that a policeman, one of the few with actual morality, has voluntarily placed his daughter in the crosshairs of a businessman with enough money and contacts to clear Miss Lance off the board and get away with it._

Unless Quentin Lance didn’t have a clue about these connections.

Regardless, it meant more work.  _For me._ Letting out a breath, Felicity had leaned back in her chair, frustrated. 

_I offer an olive branch and they do this. Just when I was starting to like Hilton._

The main problem now – because there was a surplus suddenly - was the Lawyer in Defence of Hunt: Mr Stellart. Normally, for her, such a man was easily reckoned with but said snake was well known for chewing up evidence and making the legal team involved look like incompetent idiots. Laurel Lance, a graduate with a solitary year under her belt at a charity law firm couldn’t hold against more than a decade of upper class DA work for high acumen business socialites and white collar dignitaries, plus three more years as Hunt’s personal go-to guy; she’d be eaten alive.

With a _spork_.

But the cherry on top, the last fruit in the basket to top off such a phenomenal morning came at lunch, during her usual coffee binge.

It had been impossible to avoid the multitude, the throngs, the  _gatherings_  of employees huddled around every available television in then building, watching the news alert from WEBG 7. If she hadn’t been so intent on finding a decent cup of the brown stuff, Felicity wouldn’t have initially missed the reason why.

With the coffee machine still malfunctioning on the 21st floor she’d made a visit to the 23rd; her precious Robin Hood mug secured in her palms, the toes of her pump covered feet tapping in happy anticipation of the delicious wafts of caffeine flowing towards her as the HD TV, just to her left, surrounded by women and men all perched precariously on their seats before it.

She’d just made her way to escape with her prize, when the news presenter spoke words that made her almost spill her drink.

“Oliver Queen may have only returned to Starling the night before yesterday, but this morning’s kidnap attempt was made on his life by a group of men wearing masks, carrying automatic weapons and looking for ransom. An otherwise harmless outing with close family friend, Thomas Merlyn - son of Malcolm Merlyn of Merlyn Global Group - turned into a terrifying fight for life.”

Mouth open,  _I was only with him this morning_  - ignoring the odd looks thrown at her as she stood rooted in the open doorway – she blinked hard to focus on the reporter.

“Both were been found, unharmed, in the old Warehouse District west of the Glades.” the tight knot winding alarmingly fast in her gut loosened -  _barely_  - at the sight of police men hustling and bustling behind Nick -  _sure, when they’re on camera they’re all work, work, work,_ but in reality they’re been nothing but a barrier, even to themselves. “According to sources,” _sources? Is that another word for ‘nosy passer-by’s’ or do you have another mole in your department Hilton?_ “Their abductors were seemingly thwarted by the presence of a masked man, identity unknown.”

_Er… excuse me?_

Her breath caught, because  _what?_ Reality trespassing, she frowned as she took in the captivated stares and murmurs of her colleges.

“Is this another sighting of the Watchman?” No, it wasn’t. “Though many would question the presence of said guardian, his past excursions have never followed a specific pattern. But it begs the question of why such a person would be watching over the two richest men this side of Gotham.” The question could, _would_ ,be asked until they’re sick of inquiring _._ “More to come with the news at one.”

For a moment, she just stood there.

There was another vigilante?

 _There couldn’t be. I mean… Why?_ Why now?

It took a while before she was able to move, to leave, before she was muttering to herself as she pattered down the corridor to her office; fully determined not to get involved with  _any of it_.

_Maybe Oliver’s just a hotspot: I kidnapped him – sort of; if kidnapping meant being forced to do the actual taking of the victim because the victim said so, it gets lost somewhere in translation – then someone else takes him, this time at gunpoint…_

It took maybe ten minutes as she sat at her desk trying to work (and failing in trying to do work) for her to touch her mobile. And she’d deliberately placed her mobile directly north of her waiting fingers.

But it wasn’t as if she expected Oliver Queen to call.  _He wouldn’t. Shouldn’t; we barely know each other._

Still…

She was worried. About him. About Oliver. Even if he was completely fine.

 _Great._ She slumped, _I am the walking cliché._

She pulled the offending thing to her and quickly typed:  _are you okay? Saw it on the news._

Ideally – since her brain ran from 0 to 60 in a second – if they were closer she’d have added a whole bunch of stuff like  _‘are you hurt? Do you need ice cream? Mint Choc-Chip? Can I do anything? The news reporter said you were okay, but, are you?_

_Were you really saved by a man in a mask?_

_And what did this person do to your kidnappers?_

Questions. Too many questions. And no answers.

Her fingertips drummed idly, yet consistently against her desk top.

_Vigilante._

It wasn’t a term she took lightly. Judging by the multitudes online and on the news, who’d outright refused to allocate any other moniker than Watchman and the odd other name she wouldn’t acknowledge, the residents of Starling didn’t either.

Theoretically, anybody could be a vigilante. But in a very real sense, it was near to impossible for most to achieve. There were definite prerequisites, essential criteria needed for the creation of such an individual. And of course, the ever-telling question: be they paladin or reprobate malefactor? 

Or be they neutrality?

Be they… Watchman.

So into her musing she almost missed the tell-tale beep of her phone and scrambled towards it, steeling a glimpse at the clock as she did so: it had been almost an hour since she’d sent it,  _whoa_. Blue painted nails brushed across the screen-

_‘I’m fine’_

Succinct. She breathed a sigh of relief.  _To the point._   _And he’d answered_ , which was a hell of a lot more than she’d actually expected of-

_-‘Thank you’_

A soft blink later and she was texting back.

_‘Absolutely no need to thank me. Nothing quite says ‘welcome back’ like a kidnapping, right?’_

Rolling her eyes –  _wow Felicity, blunt instrument to the end_  – she shook herself;  _I could have done so much worse,_ and added on:  _‘do you need anything?’_

A minute climbed by. Then two.

She completed a system diagnostic…

Five minutes crawled to ten. Fifteen.

She answered three phone calls, instructed seemingly feckless workers in the QC building – one worrying example was another IT tech - and managed  _not_  to bite all her nails to tiny-

_‘Yes’_

She jumped to attention, which she wouldn’t have done for anybody other than Walter Steele and isn’t that just a little embarrassing?

_‘Name it’_

Again she waited.  _He probably isn’t used to the-_

_‘I need the name of a realtor, on the low-key’_

Her grin was ridiculous. It was nice to have her instincts pay off.  _‘For the Queen Industrial Shipping Factory? Already have it for you: Steve Mallory, off 5 th and Avenue, 12 Prescott Street – his office is based there’_

She didn’t know why he wanted it: just that he wanted it. And she wanted to help him.

_’That was fast’_

_‘I am fast; very fast’_

Satisfied, she put the phone down resumed her work-

- _NO_! She backtracked, eyes suddenly huge, freaking the heck out because her brain had a history of working against her: _‘Not that I’m always that fast: I can be slow. And methodical: I mentioned that right?’_

Nodding to herself –  _because, yes; that sentence made absolute sense_  – she let out a breath and made once again to place the phone down when,  _again_ , her brain explained exactly why this might have been the worst thing for her to have chosen to say.

_‘But I already had the information ready and waiting. Not that I’m ready and waiting for you – just my information. That is all’_

She’d ruined it.

_‘I’m going to go away now’_

-Because he definitely  _hadn’t_  replied -  _like I’d given him the chance_.

Mortified, _horrified_ , she - didn’t switch off her phone because she was absolutely anal retentive – placed her mobile just beyond her coffee cup: out of reach. Planning to do a full day’s work in the space of one afternoon.

_I do so much better in the dark…_

Nightfall was too many hours away.

 

* * *

 

 

**SCPD, 9.50pm…**

In recent months,  _years_ , Detective Hilton had grown a subtle kind of… not fear exactly, more an  _unease_  with the night. The moment the sun passed the horizon, his stomach would begin to tighten, would sometimes churn.

Tonight was no different.

In fact tonight, it was worse. And he didn’t know why.

“This is hilarious.” The phone, nestled between his shoulder and cheek, would leave definite prints: evidence of the 20 minutes he’d already been on the line. “I’m not impressed by this and you shouldn’t be either.” He emphasised.

 _“Look, this could be a major break for HTPU_ (Human Trafficking Prosecution Unit) _-”_

“It already  _is_  a major break for the unit, Brian. Carlos Vuentes. In their custody.  _After_  he kills one of your guys. And they didn’t have to do a single thing to even  _attempt_  to press charges on a ghost; they just had to wait for someone else to do the job. They were on him for  _7 years_. Don’t tell me that after 7 years of failing to grab this guy, when they’re finally given the keys to his sick little kingdom, Stanford is ready to broker a deal that’ll have him walking in 10 years, just so he can get a  _name_?”

It was sickening: Carlos Vuentes. Major freelance human-trafficking scumbag. Had spent the better part of his existence taking and selling children – he’d started with girls and ended with boys – and Niles Stanford, head of HTPU, wanted to reduce a sentence that should have ended with a quick and legal execution to a ten year stretch in Iron Heights.

For a  _name_.

_“It’s not just any name Lucas-”_

“I don’t care if it’s the identity of the vigilante himself, who – just so we’re clear – is the one who literally handed Vuentes to us, right on our doorstep.”

Yeah, because it got better.

Hilton… he couldn’t,  _wouldn’t_ , allow this.

_It isn’t right._

The Watchman.

No matter the rumours, no matter his partner’s ideals, no matter what he knew the vigilante was capable of; thanks to the Watchman not only had he  _not_  had to step within fifty feet of some of the most notoriously dangerous men this side of the planet, he’d also managed to claim credit – credit he didn’t understand what to do with – for some of the departments most famous and infamous arrests that they’d seen in the past couple of years.

His partner, Quentin Lance, who would rather get right up in the face of the world’s most disreputable criminals, had also managed to reap a modicum of fame from the Watchman. And had hated every minute.

 _‘Why would I want acclaim for a ‘job well done’ that I didn’t have any part in?’_ He’d said. _‘Never mind that it was the result of a vigilante who’s exploits_ completely _cross the line of law abiding, straight into law destroying! A man who shows up at a crime scene before we do: who knows_ more _than we do, which is totally unacceptable! And we let this guy do it, right under our noses! …I need a coffee, you?’_

But, however Quentin detested the idea of a vigilante, the one thing he abhorred more was letting a criminal do  _less_  than his time – for any reason. It was why Lucas was more than a little happy that the detective had taken an early night for once.

_Well, that’s part of the problem.”_

“What do you mean?”

 _“Niles was…”_  There was a sigh down the line, as if what he was about to say was something he really didn’t want to.  _“He was hoping that if we score this name from Vuentes, then we could… let the vigilante take care of the rest.”_

It took Hilton a moment to process what he’d just heard. “Tell me you didn’t just say what I think you just said.”

_“His idea was that if the Watchman could garner the kind of evidence he did on Carlos, enough for us to immediately incarcerate him, then he could also gather more of the same so that even after any deal made with this SOB, we could still get him with a hung jury.”_

There had been a rare few times in his career that Lucas Hilton had been truly speechless. This was maybe, the fourth time.

_“Lucas?”_

“I feel sick.”

_“Look man-”_

“No  _Brian_.” Pulling the phone from between his neck, he pressed it to his ear again. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Are you telling me that we’re actually- that this  _precinct_  has actually fallen so low that we’re willing to lay all the responsibility on the vigilante to do our work for us?” It had taken months for the Watchman to secure Carlos, he  _knew_. And without the help of the City’s  _finest_. A humourless huff escaped him; he didn’t feel so  _fine_  right now. “Didn’t realise we were so inept.” Actually… it had been a growing thought for many months now.

Either that or he had to admit and fully acknowledge that the force was corrupt.

_“Quentin’s really rubbed off on you.”_

“Then he has the right idea.”

_“That’s not what this is Lucas.”_

“Then what is it? Please; tell me I’m getting the wrong image here.”

_“Our department’s so under staffed right now, it’s amazing we’ve gotten anything done-”_

For the fourth time that night, Hilton interrupted. “We’re _all_ understaffed! Budget cuts, lack of funding, layoffs, upgrades not granted, warrants not permitted- how the hell do you think  _we_  cope, man?”

They did. By a _thread_.

A thimble of spite crept into his colleagues tone. _“I wouldn’t know: a third of your cases are solved via vigilante.”_

For a dark moment there was silence. And yes: dark. Because he was at the office, way past his daughter’s bedtime, with only one desk lamp shining in his eyes and losing patience. That, and there was far more than a simple grain of truth in that statement.

Rewind the clock two years, one year, and he would have vehemently denied the truth of it. Now? He wanted to tell this guy to go stick his limitations that keep the job from getting done, up Niles Stanford _’s_ ass, _I’ll never understand why such a tool was promoted._

Brian seemed to find his nerve.  _“Lucas, man, I’m sorry.”_

A sigh. “No, I get it. You’re tired. And your unit is spent with its resources. But we can’t just start stripping off areas of our work that we hate and allocating it to the Vigilante. For a start we wouldn’t even know how to contact him. He just…”

_“Shows up?”_

“And disappears, yeah. Niles mustn’t be making this easy for you.”

_“Hey, remember when he first showed up? How ridiculous it all was?”_

Did he ever.

It began with rumours, a little over 2 years ago. Of someone hidden in the dark. An individual, who would come out of the night and be a figurative bogeyman for lowlife offenders.

At least, that’s how it started.

Eventually, thieves, violent offenders, GTA, vandals, and murders: there wasn’t a distinction. However; how, when and why this person showed up was still a mystery that no one had managed to pinpoint.

And then the pictures had started, the quotes. Lucky passer-by’s who’d managed to capture blurry shots of someone moving too fast for a decent image. As circumstantial as it might have appeared, it was still definitive proof of an honest to goodness vigilante roaming Starling City. A vigilante nobody could find or clearly verify.

Early 2011, the kidnapping of 2 children had brought this creature out from the shadows and into the daylight in a fantastic debacle involving a shootout in an old garage and auto-repair shop. Six cops, including Hilton himself had glimpsed the man in question. Later it had been deduced that the children were meant to be sold: their first solid lead into Carlos Vuentes.

And thanks to The Watchman both children, a girl of 12 and a boy of 11, had been recovered with minor injuries. Both were children of wealthy families.

Evidence indicating familial involvement, leading to the arrest of the girl’s uncle and wannabe mafia neophytes holed up in the Glades, appeared seemingly out of thin air just hours later: an anonymous dump into the hard drive of the Head of the Technical Analytics Department who still hadn’t managed to trace it back to the owner.

The next day, a task force was set up; the sole purpose of which was to find and apprehend the vigilante. A unit he and Quentin had been forced on and off of ever since. And they hadn’t managed to come close to catching this guy.

It was the makings of a legend.

That afternoon the name  **The Watchman**  leaked online to every news-site from Starling to Central and beyond. The newspapers received a standing order from the Mayor who had friends in the senator’s office: if any one paper published The Watchman as an official designation they would be sued for self-serving propaganda. But they hadn’t had the chance to incorporate major media sites on the internet into the subpoena.

And even now, only select members of the SCPD knew fully of the vigilante’s existence. Everything else was simply hearsay.

But that didn’t stop people from  _knowing_. Didn’t stop the vigilante from doing… doing his job.

Months ago, when he suddenly started targeting trafficking rings in the Glades, the popularity and sheer respect for this vigilante rose ten-fold.

“I’d say it isn’t so ridiculous now Brian.”

 _“Yeah. Like to meet him one day...”_ He really doesn’t think he would. _“Listen man, I’ll try to talk to Niles again but I don’t know what it’ll accomplish.”_

“Thanks.”

Hanging up, Lucas sighed.

For all the papers had managed to cultivate, on how much they’d managed to flip from week to month on whether there was a ‘person of interest’ out there in the City – without using the moniker most were blabbing - Lucas knew that he was real because he’d seen him. Seen a little of his works. Had been awed by The Watchman.

And terrified.

Stretching his back and fingers he stood, working the kinks until the joints popped and cracked-

“That’s a bad habit.”

His heart almost jumped out of his chest, constricting painfully as the light from the lamp on his desk, his computer monitor and tower, the servers in the back, and the camera presiding over the room… all turned off at once.

Breath coming out in pants, his brain stalled for understanding. He started to sweat, yet was frozen in place. Because he  _knew_. Eyes wide, searching the darkness though he knew he’d never see what he was looking for, his hand moved automatically for his sidearm… but his holster was both unclipped and empty.

Of course it was.

But this wasn’t the routine. It wasn’t what normally happens. There wasn’t even a ‘normal’ to consider.  _What changed? Oh God, what changed?_

He could only feel his pulse, only hear it pound in his ears. And for the first time, the shadows of the department crawled towards him, unseen.

_He’s here…_

As if he’d said it aloud, the light from a solitary monitor quietly switched on three desks away – the server next to it still down for the count - and the pale screen slowly illuminated a form sat on the same desk. A dark silhouette, a darker mask.

The facial impediment was eerie. It was always eerie. Intimidating.

Fully black, the material thick and smooth with the odd suggestion of grey, it covered the entirety of the face. And the hair. No skin was visible. There was a minor outline where the ears should have been. Angular, but not intrusive to the effect of the mask. It gave the ‘face’, such as it is, a visceral quality. An almost animalistic feel to the design… _Feline_. There was something very ‘covert ops’ about it too. Or at least, it would have if Hilton hadn’t seen this man in action.

Inhuman felt more accurate. It didn’t shine like PVC either, more… leather? Kevlar? Some sort of flexi-resistant fibre connected to a hidden body suit?

The thing about the vigilante? He wasn’t seen until he wanted to be seen. And when he wanted to be, which was few and far in-between, the bare minimum was all to be seen. The shadows hid him well. As if he  _brought_  the darkness. Hilton knew the man was also wearing a black coat, leaving his form undefined. Whether to hide his shape or to keep warm, Hilton had never asked, had never  _wanted_  to.

The vigilante had only visited him once before and even then, it was only to give him a warning: to stay out of his way.

So what could he possibly want with him here?

“You’re working late.”

Another unsettling facet to the vigilante was his voice. There was some sort of vocal processor attached to his outfit; there had to be. A voice amplifier; some sort of modulator? To disguise his voice into something unrecognisable. It was something the SCPD hadn’t come across before and in the months since he’d first heard the vigilante speak, he and the rest of the squad still hadn’t managed to find the manufacturer.

“Cat got your tongue Lucas Hilton?”

He jumped, realising he’d been staring. “S-sorry.” Swallowing, he tried to tear his gaze away from the vigilante to the -  _I can’t see a thing anyway_  - room around him… and failed. “I-I was just, er…”

“Preoccupied.” Despite the phonetic burr of artificial modulators, the voice was oddly soft. A fluidic hum. But it was also calculating. Neither high nor low in frequency. There was nothing discernible that he could gather from it. Not tells. Nothing.

He shivered and swallowed. “Yes.”

“Then tonight we have something in common.” Shifting where he perched, the vigilante appeared languidly at ease. One leg casually leant atop the desk and his arms were lax on thighs and crotch, he was passive. Calm.

Hilton knew differently.

The vigilante took a breath. “Laurel Lance.”

 _What?_ “I’m sorry?”

“I gave you sensitive information pertaining to Adam Hunt’s extensive contract violations, without breaching the legal parameters for the procurement of such Intel: it’s usable in court.”

“I know-”

“-I then handed to you,  _personally_ , a list of account numbers in which to charge CEO Hunt with embezzlement from his own clientele sheet.” The vigilante paused, head tilting sideways, discolouring the dim light. “I explained to you what the consequences could be if such information fell into the wrong hands.”

A trickle of sweat dipped down Hilton’s spine as he shook his head. “I didn’t give or tell any-”

“And you gave the case to Laurel Lance.”

There was barely any inflection in how the words were spoken; no need whatsoever for Hilton to feel on edge other than the obvious. But he got it: the vigilante wasn’t… satisfied.

“Lieutenant Ellet did that.” The words rushed out. “ _He_  did that. There-”

“I instructed,” as if Lucas hadn’t said a word – and it was ironic given how many times Lucas had interrupted Brian earlier - the Vigilante finished, “that a man such as Hunt, with all his connections, would make sure to utilize  _methods_  against the prosecution and that whichever defence attorney took the case would have to have an extensive history in dealing with corporate criminals; that they would have to understand the risks involved as they move against him. Laurel Lance falls into neither of these categories. Nepotism wasn’t something I considered you or Detective Lance capable of.”

“Look,” panicking, Hilton pleaded, “that isn’t what happened.” And though he couldn’t see his face, he got the impression that the vigilante’s eyebrows were raised. “Quentin didn’t want his daughter anywhere _near_ this case; Ellet went over his head, claiming that it would raise police distinction in the eyes of the public if CNRI and the daughter of a cop were utilized in the incarceration of Hunt. And he put it on record that it was issued as a favour to Lance. The reason why he isn’t here right now is because he’s trying to talk to Laurel. She’s stubborn; she won’t quit easily.”

“Or at all.”

“Uh, right.”

“This isn’t the first time Ellet abused authority, but he’s small fry:  it isn’t him I’m concerned about. Not right now.”

And the air in the room suddenly felt closer. “What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter.” The dismissal was quiet but absolute and Hilton felt like whatever credibility he may have had with the vigilante, had just vanished.  _Shit_. “I won’t be feeding you information again.”

 _Fuck_. Feeling like he’d lost way too much ground – ground he hadn’t realise he’d had – Hilton took a step closer, but-

“We were never partners.” The vigilante said, titled head now straight. He was completely still. “I simply offered you an olive branch and you deferred authority on the subject. It told me everything I need to know. You allocated responsibility because you didn’t know what to do with it.”

The implication was clear: ‘I reached out to the wrong person’.

For one long moment Hilton felt unusually disappointed. In himself. And a little relieved. It was a profound sensation. It would have been so useful… then again, the vigilante was right. He’d passed it straight to his lieutenant who’d fobbed it off. It was just that…

The Watchman unnerved him. Though small for a man – he swore this person couldn’t be taller than 5”9 or 10 – he had a presence that Hilton didn’t know what to do with.  He was at war with his own beliefs: half of him believed in his badge but the other half was losing faith and relying more and more on the vigilante to be there to fill in the holes. Even if it wasn’t a  _spoken_  truth.

Yet if push came to shove, was he strong enough, really, to deal with him?

Watching as the Vigilante shifted smoothly to his feet – not making a sound –blocking the little light left he knew the answer.  _No. I’m not._

“What will you do?” He asked, acquiescent.

“You don’t need to know. Now tell me about Vuentes and why Niles Stanford wants a deal.”

The question threw him off guard. “You heard about that?”

“Yes.” The vigilante moved and Hilton could  _just_  see him scanning the documents on the desk he’d sat at. “I was here as  you spoke.”

Lucas blinked. Once. Twice. “I was on the phone for 20 minutes.” _I didn’t see you._

“And I was in the room with you.”

He licked his lips. “I didn’t hear a thing.”

The mask, the face, turned to him. “That’s kind of the point.” Then those goggled eyes – because those eyes were in fact covered with expensive looking, thin, black metallic covers – went back to snooping. “Which name is Stanford after?”

“He wants the other two.”

“Of the Big Three Traffickers?”

“Yes.”

“Which one is he pressing for first?”

“The man.”

Because there was a man and a woman.

Straightening, the vigilante looked at Hilton again. There’s something about the action which makes him think that the vigilante is working through a weight heavier than steel. It was a dark silence.

“That’ll be difficult.” The vigilante eventually stated… slowly.

Apprehension began to turn Hilton’s insides. “You know him, don’t you?”

“Simon Says.”

“Sorry?”

“That’s what he made them say, a game he’d play with them. Simon Grandville.”

“With who?”

“The girls.” And god, do the implications of those two words hit Hilton like a battering ram. “Like most boys, he likes to play with his toys. And his money. Unfortunately he isn’t frequenting Starling right now. But I’ll be watching for when he does. Tell that to Stanford.” Then, with a slight twist, he left; fading completely into the dark.

“Wait! I need to ask you about this hood-guy.”

For a moment he thinks the vigilante has left him. Then…

“Hood-guy?” The voice was an undertone and Hilton still couldn’t see him.

“It wasn’t released to the papers yet, the Hood part. There was a kidnapping today. It’s been all over the news: Oliver Queen and Thomas Merlyn were taken by three men, all armed, until some guy in a hood kills their kidnappers.”

“Killed?”

“I know: you don’t kill. At least, it’s not your _aim_.” But he had and probably would again.

“How did they die?”

“With expert precision. Whoever this guy is he knows his weapons and sometime taught him how to take lives. And how to hunt.” He added after a moment of consideration.

“Hunt?”

“The third gunman. We found him in a warehouse two hundred yards away from the others. His gun was empty of bullets and his neck was broken. We thought… we thought it might have been you at first.”

“It wasn’t.” When the vigilante spoke again, he sounded further away. “I’ll look into it. Who were the kidnappers?”

Hilton shrugged. “Just street punks.” The vigilante didn’t say a word… and Hilton didn’t have more. The silence begun to get to him. “Are you there?” Nothing. “…Watchman?”

His heartbeat was skyrocketing-

-When the tiny light from the monitor suddenly blinked out, surrendering the room to pitch black, he jumped. Before he could do a thing the lamp on his desk, his computer, the servers in the back and the camera in the room, all switched back on.

He let out a breath. “I’m sticking to homicide and vice… _any_ day of the week.”

 

* * *

 

 

The divide between the mask and the face beneath is a fine line.

For the one who watches over the city, it’s a shield.

And the blur between good and bad is more _grey_ , than black or white.

But it was the reality of what happens when searching for a cure, when targeting the disease: not just the sickness. And for realising; there is no cure, no stopping it…

_I’m just trying to make this city a better place._

 

 


	6. Freak in the Mask

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOD. How long has it been? Anyway, life is cruel sometimes and mine has been recently. But I like how long this too me: two weeks. I don't know how. Onto the next. Please review if you feel the need, but mostly I want to know if there's something you guys desperately want to see.

** **

**Queen Mansion**

It was quiet. Too quiet.

Silence was fine, _if_ he was free to move. To train. To do what he needed to do. So, because it was quiet - the unnatural kind, created by doors and walls and emptiness - Oliver had to leave. He _needed_ to, sure, but he also wanted to. Everything in between was… uncomfortable. Dinner and conversation and smiles and nothing familiar. He didn’t know how to simply _be_. He wanted to go.

But.

“Oliver.”

_Mom._

Turning - knowing he wouldn’t be going anywhere now - it was still a surprise to see her stood there in the foyer; as if 5 years hadn’t passed. As if they - his mother, himself, everyone else - hadn’t changed. The image was solid.

The image was an image.

“Where are you going?” Moira Queen - as poised and as warm as he remembered her being - reached out a hand towards where he stood at the bottom of the stairs. “We’re watching a movie; me and Walter.” The addition wasn’t necessary; the man hadn’t left her side since dinner. Another meal where Oliver couldn’t quite stomach the menu but had forced himself to stay seated at. “Come join us. It’s been too long.”

It was the last thing on earth wanted to do right then. But what he wanted didn’t matter. The mission did.

Felicity Smoak had come through: he hadn’t bartered with the realtor - Mr Mallory - of the Queen Industrial Shipping Factory. He’d just handed over what he knew was roughly 3 times the price – after converting the diamonds in his inheritance vault into cash at the Russian Bodega – into confused but very grateful hands before seizing deeds that would never see the light of day. For all anyone would know, for a while at least, the factory was still abandoned.

All that was left was to save face. To pile onto the image of Oliver ‘Ollie the Playboy’ Queen and it started here. In this place. With his family.

The fake reality started _now_. He was ready. It had been too long, years.

This would be just once. Just one movie. A placation. Later, he doubted he’d have time. He doubted they’d _want_ him there. It didn’t feel real.

 _He_ didn’t feel real.

Looking at her – noting the near-masked concern, the hesitation in her eyes that made him ache inside in places he hadn’t known existed and an old pain that would probably haunt her for the rest of her life – he smiled. It almost felt sincere. “Sure, mom.”

It was for her.

Because it hadn’t been the considerate question - the _come join us –_ she thought it was, he knew, as she navigated him to one of the lounge rooms _._ It was her not-so subtle way of saying, _we’re a family; it’s time to behave like one._ A demand to the universe to give this back to her.

Whether he wanted it or not. It was forgivable.

 _Pretend._ He could do that. He could-

_‘But I already had the information ready and waiting. Not that I’m ready and waiting for you – just my information. That is all’_

-Try.

But he kept going back to that. To the phone and her words. To the inexplicable way she’d anticipated what he’d needed. And the oddness that wasn’t odd at all.

_"Just from the time gone,” she said down into her phone as she’d stood behind her, moving with her; watching her, “I'd have to wonder if anybody could be or act the same way as they once did.”_

“Ollie?” Thea passed him the popcorn once he’d reached on of the sofas. He let it sit there in his lap, unnoticed by all that he didn’t take a single kernel. He’d gag on the texture, grimace at the sweetness. _Time_. Give it time. “Preference?”

She gestured to the line of DVDs on the coffee table before twisting around the arm of her chair to reach for her soda. No one saw him stare at them.

He didn’t care about _any_ of this.

But they did, so he prodded a random movie he didn’t take in the title of as his mother sat glued to her husband - to him, a near-stranger - knowing that Thea wouldn’t have placed a single unwanted DVD in the selection. “This one.”

It didn’t really matter if he liked it or not: they were just happy he was sat there with them. He could give them that. He’d be disappointing them soon anyway. And he’d made peace with that. It-

_“I’m not a doctor or anything… You’ve been through something most couldn’t understand. Did you think you could return home and everything would be the same as it was? You shouldn’t have to pretend that everything’s fine… And you shouldn’t worry when it’s not.”_

-didn’t… matter.

But… he kept going back to her words.

To a stranger.

_“Which will end, like my dignity, in three, two, one…”_

* * *

 

**SCPD, 10:20PM**

_He let out a breath. “I’m sticking to homicide and vice… _any_  day of the week.”_

He’d said that, but it had been ten minutes since The Watchman had left, since he’d made Detective Lucas Hilton rethink everything he hadn’t thought to consider - _ever_ \- because he’d never truly doubted a fellow officer of the law that way, though he knew there was reason. He knew there were dirty cops in the precinct, but he’d refused to consider having any in his own unit. He knew the moment he started to see the grey between the black and white, that’s all he’d _ever_ see.

Hilton stared at the digital clock face on his desk phone.

Maybe that was why the Watchman had… _reconsidered_ with him. He wasn’t ready or willing to take that step. Acknowledging that the SCPD wasn’t what it as supposed to be warred with knowing that he didn’t want to _actively_ do anything about it.

His life was good. His family were safe and looked after. He didn’t want to mess any of that up. Even if it meant-

Even if it meant working for a morally corrupt Lieutenant; his boss, with the Captain on sabbatical.

Hilton had never wanted to contemplate distrusting Dave; his Lieutenant. Dave Ellet… personally, he knew nothing about him. Professionally, Ellet had a few fingers in some questionable pies. Judges that Hilton knew were on the take. Lawyers who had connections with the criminal elite. He _knew_ that the man was corrupt.

It just hadn’t occurred to him that he’d deliberately deliver a high-class offender to a charity-case lawyer - the daughter of a cop - for any reason less than scrupulous because it was the kind of thing that would make him wonder if Ellet had done _other_ things that had gone under the radar. That had gotten people hurt.

 _No, I won’t do this_. He wouldn’t start considering doubts against the men he worked with or for. Doubt led to distrust and distrust in the police force, was a path to anarchy.

_“Cat got your tongue Lucas Hilton?”_

His heart was still racing. _Jesus Christ._ The vigilante could make a large room feel very small.

_“I was on the phone for 20 minutes.”_

_“And I was in the room with you.”_

He’d taken down the system somehow. And the building’s auxiliary power, _just_ so he could talk to Lucas Hilton. He’d been in the room with him for more than a few minutes and Hilton, who’d considered himself streetwise, hadn’t been aware.

 _I should be writing this up._ He _should_ be reporting it, so why wasn’t he?

_“I instructed that a man such as Hunt, with all his connections, would make sure to utilize methods against the prosecution and that whichever defence attorney took the case would have to have an extensive history in dealing with corporate criminals; that they would have to understand the risks involved as they move against him. Laurel Lance falls into neither of these categories. Nepotism wasn’t something I considered you or Detective Lance capable of.”_

Elbows on his desk, he lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck and he let out a breath he felt he’d been holding in the entire time the vigilante had been there.

_“This isn’t the first time Ellet abused authority, but he’s small fry:  it isn’t him I’m concerned about. Not right now.”_

Right.

It wasn’t just about him right now. It was about Laurel Lance, his partner’s daughter; he wasn’t touching Ellet. It was about her eagerness to be more - too much, too young, too _soon_ \- and some stars burn bright too fast. He’d met her, had spoken to her and he’d wondered at the defiance in her; her need to prove something only she understood. But it didn’t explain why she was aiming for men like Adam Hunt.

 _I can’t just ignore this,_ which was when his eyes landed on his phone. “Dammit.”

He lifted the receiver, hoping his friend and partner was in a better mood than the black one he’d left with a couple of hours before.

 _Not likely_.

“Quentin.” He said when his partner accepted his call. “Yeah, I’m still at the station… you’re going to want to come back in.”

 

* * *

 

**Starling City East Port**

_I’m just trying to make this city a better place._

And despite Starling’s problems, the darkness and all that follows it, there’s hope. The people look into the night now, hoping to see it in a shape: a shadow, disguised as a _man_.

A Watchman.

She couldn’t always be there, but when she was, she had to place them in order of priority. That could hurt more than a fist to her face. _Priority order_.

It was a theme in Starling City. One she’d learned to navigate. To accept, to a degree, that she couldn’t do everything. She couldn’t be everywhere at once. She couldn’t do what was needed in a fashion stronger than this without making the wrong sort of waves.

She shouldn’t be needed at all. She didn’t want to be.

But she wondered if she could even live without it now.

Yet, dependence on the police force in almost any context was, unfortunately, impossible in a city that bowed to the whim of the rich and corrupt. She’d been doing this long enough to know the drill. And the less the world knew about her - knew that the vigilante was a _she_ , for instance - the better for them. Let her be a ghost.

At least… that’s what she’d wanted.

Rooftop to rooftop; she raced the moon’s rotation, looking over the city as she did. A necessary black stain, because the _light_ was still quite small: a deep pocket where crystal brilliance fills the cracks of a dirty mask with black holes for eyes.

Look past the grime long enough, past the filth, the violence, the greed and the lust and eventually you get there. You see the _good_.

Its ugly, but it’s _there_. A piece of charcoal: a diamond in the rough. And the things that she’d do to polish off the dirt every once in a while, wasn’t near enough.

Starling was a city that prepared during the day and came alive at night. It grew silent as she weaved towards the Harbour; her previous engagement.

Landing on the metal bridge of an old meat packing plant, she hooked her grapple up a lone crane to glide across an expanse of nothing; her thoughts elsewhere.

 _Niles Stanford._ He was slime. Ambitious and questionable in his scruples. But he didn’t worry her.

Hilton - though he hadn’t said much and had confirmed even less - had given her a lot to think about. However, _priorities_.

Simon Granville wasn’t one. And she wouldn’t make him one, not to please the self-aggrandising head of HTPU. Not to pull a monster out of hiding when it served greater purposes to leave him curled up in his spiral of darkness for a while. Not when a naïve attorney at CNRI had lofty ideals that she couldn’t back with any measure of assurance.

Laurel Lance had a massive target on her back. Courtesy _of_ Laurel Lance. But, like before, this also wasn’t her priority.

_“Wait! I need to ask you about this hood-guy.”_

Just like this ‘man in a hood’, though intriguing, wasn’t one either; that would come later, tomorrow or the next day.

This night was for Martin Somers.

The next man on her list. She’d discovered this through pure coincidence thanks to Carlos Vuentes; his obsession with freight ships during his trafficking runs and his inability to recognise that predictability could be a weakness, had been his undoing. Mr Somers used the very same docking bay.

They made it so easy sometimes. Until the day one of them gets smart. _That’s when I come in._

And though Mr Somers wasn’t all that clever, his friends were. And he made up for his lack of intelligence with a deep selfishness and overriding ruthlessness.

If she didn’t move fast, he could be the next big fish Miss Lance would leap at.

Moving through the darkness, she slid onto the adjoining warehouse and peeked inside. There was activity. The right names, the scent and hustle of a major drug haul. It was also easy-access and when she found her door, so to speak...

She dropped down.

 

* * *

 

The night shift had been _paid_ to leave. So, it was quiet. And civilians didn’t make habits of taking a walk down to the docks at such an hour. The men on job, they felt safe enough to… well, commit crime.

They weren’t, of course. In the gloom of the warehouse, they forgot that shadows are silent.

And maybe it was _past_ time to give a face to the ghost they’d only heard stories about.

“…Gives me the creeps.” Casting surreptitious glances into the dark, a man – one horizontally challenged – cleared his throat, shifting on the spot he’d claimed and grunted. “I’m starvin’.”

Pulling his jacket closer - smelling that good old ‘haven’t washed in three days’ odour - he tried to ignore the constant tickle at the back of his neck that wouldn’t go away.

 _Just unpack the goods, get the all clear from boss man and its one fat pay day. No problems,_ he thought to himself; a hand sliding in self-assurance over the rifle dangling uselessly over on one shoulder. As if he’d been given a crash course in how to use it. _Point it at the guy. Pull the trigger. Guy goes down, right?_

“Kay boys!” He shouted to the men below him, “we gotta’ get this shit cleaned up while Mr Summers welcomes in the Triad!” _Better him than me._ A clipboard in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other, he walked across the top of a ten-foot-high metal crate, exalting in the faces staring up at him; it was good being his boss’s go-to. _You got respect_. “Boss-man wants the merchandise unloaded for distribution by midnight!” Said _merchandise_ was a few million dollars’ worth of heroin and methamphetamines just lying at the feet of a dozen bought dock-hands. “ETA: 1 hour, 30 and counting. Get to it!”

A wave of movement immediately broke out - they wanted to get paid or they wanted to get high - and abruptly, the very low sound turned to _noise_ , so they didn’t notice a figure move overhead. Didn’t notice it slip down from God knows where, perching on the rafters.

Couldn’t see her crouch, leaning forwards on her haunches.

Watching. Waiting. Listening.

Soft patented leather didn’t crudely creak as it stretched. Arms resting on her knees, her gloved hands dangled idly; her body one with the darkness.

The mask tracked the man dozens of feet beneath her, now finally off the crate where he’d lorded it up, as he walked the perimeter - not so much _that_ as finding a decent place to light up - with his zippo already out, ready and waiting.

If he dropped it at the wrong moment, he could set the place alight with the volume of plastic wrap and box foam filling covering the area. But that wasn’t why she followed him.

Away from prying eyes and ears - _bad move_ \- the man lifted the walkie-talkie to his mouth. “We’re good to go sir.”

 _“Any problems Tony?”_ Replied a voice on the other end of the line.

Tony; middle-aged, with a dirty baseball cap covering a bald patch on his head...

“It’s all on schedule Mr Somers.” And he sounded thrilled with himself.

_“Good. Make sure it stays that way. The Triad aren’t the type to accept mistakes.”_

“No sir, no mistakes.” Sweat beaded Tony’s forehead but otherwise, he still sounded the eager addict he truly was.

Money and stupidity. Lethal combination. And it shoots up when you add drug dependence. Pun intended.

_“Keep it up. And keep it quiet. Nocenti’s been stirring up trouble we don’t need with the cops.”_

Nocenti?

This was a problem. Men like Somers killed for less than a snitch. But the speed of the night’s delivery made sense now. Not in a good way, but logic was logic.

“You want me to take care of it boss?” His keen offer made her shift. The swift turn to violence would never cease to surprise.

_“No. Our special visitor’s going to do that. Just do your job and keep people away from the office.”_

Special visitor.

The office was the rundown quarter to the side of the warehouse, formerly a packing storeroom... it was also covered in sheets of plastic. The perfect place to kill a man and leave no clear evidence. Of course, there _could_ be, but there were also cops on the take who would make sure there wouldn’t be.

The area was secured by 2 armed guards who she was sure, _also_ had no idea beyond a basic one of how to use the weapons they’d been given.

“Yes sir.”

Somers was meeting with the Chinese Mafia. Where they trying to make a bigger push into the city? _Who did they send as envoy?_

_“And keep a lookout.”_

Tony stopped pacing. “Boss?”

_“I don’t want any unexpected guests.”_

“Who-”

 _“I don’t want anybody_ watching _.”_

 _Oh_.

It wasn’t as much of a surprise as it might have been 6 months ago, a year ago. But her moniker – one she hadn’t created – had never been utilised like this, as a warning. Or an insinuation. When she’d first started, she’d kept her night-time _strolls_ to a minimum. Kept her focus on the crime she could prevent at her fingertips. Then she broadened her horizons: looked to the subliminal workings of the criminal underworld, the online dealings, the patterns in the city.

Now, it had finally come to this point. Criminals cautioning criminals about her. Still, maybe it was _just_ that, because they still expected favourable results regardless.

Well, underestimation was always a useful tool. But yes; maybe it was time to be more than a name in the dark.

“Watching?” It took Tony a moment more… then he almost dropped the receiver. “The Watchman?! You kidding’ me?!”

_“Quiet! It’s just a precaution. If anything happens, the guards will take care of it.”_

All in all, there were five guards: two of them thugs, three Chinese Mafia errand boys.

Not enough. Not even close.

“Y-yes boss.”

Still, some instincts don’t die easily. _Good_. Fear of a faceless ghost was easy to install but for it to take root the _correct_ way, it took years. It _had_ taken years.

Nocenti was another name, another life: she remembered seeing it on Somers’s employee roster. A man who was trying to do the right thing about bad men with worse ambitions.

 _They think they’re safe; that their money keeps them safe_. But it doesn’t. It won’t.

Better get to it then.

So, there were five guards…

Then four.

Three.

Two…

 

* * *

 

 

“Jesus.” Running a sweaty hand over an even greasier mop of hair, Tony slipped the cap back on his head. _Shit_. He was jonesin’ for a joint. Anything to calm his nerves. _The Watchman. Was boss-man for real?_

Existence of Starling City’s very own bogeyman was known to everyone in the City, despite the subpoena to keep it from escalating. The cops knew more than most.

Watchman.

A name born from the unstoppable rise in crime. But seeing is believing, and most of those who’d alleged to the misfortune of seeing him up-close were either locked away in Iron Heights or they’d done a runner. Until you saw him, he was more a ghost than reality.

Ghost or not, he’d never busted druggies and crack heads. Not that Tony knew of. And definitely _never_ the CEO’s of major businesses. So, Tony was safe.

 _Just thinking about it-_ He shook it off. It didn’t matter; _let him roam if he’s real. Whatever this guy does, he’ll never stop this._

The in-house to external resources - SCPD, DA, CNRI; take your pick - bribes made sure of that, that crime pays. The gangs. Drugs. Murder. Extortion. Solicitation. Arson. Defacement. Fraud and embezzlement. The list was endless.

Gang associated affiliations were a no-show for the vigilante.

Cut the head off the snake and all that; it never ended. He must have known that. Crime didn’t stop just because some dude got it in his head to start a fire. Crime had always existed and would always be part of any healthy society. Like a balance. _Yeah_. So why try and stop it when you could just flow with the tide? _Like me._

 _He might not even exist._ A rumour given wings to make the people in the Glades feel safe. A wannabe hero-cop attempting the impossible. _He’ll get iced soon._

Patting his pockets, Tony moved to a more secluded part of the warehouse - the workers were working - which wasn’t difficult. There were so many places to hide: turn a corner and-

A gloved hand came out of the darkness, covering his mouth.

 _Fuck!_ Choking on an inhale, his first instinct was to scream shrilly. Except, he couldn’t. And he couldn’t move, couldn’t think beyond _help me_. He was pushed back into a wall within the shadows and he knew if anyone came looking, they wouldn’t see him. _Them_.

The fingers on his face pressed in so tightly, tears formed. _I’m going to die_.

Because it was The Watchman. It had to be. No one else looked like that.

A real Freak Show.

The face made Tony whimper. It was a black void: sort of _feline_ with no identifying features save the smooth facial musculature, black slim-line covers over the eyes and a strange attachment - also black - around the mouth, which seemed to blend in with the mask overall.

No gender stereotypical marks. Nothing familiar.

Inhuman.

Then, slowly, the vigilante lifted a black, leather clad finger and pressed over the area Tony assumed - prayed - was where his mouth was.

A silent ‘ _shh’_.

_What?_

The same finger then pointed to the walkie-talkie at Tony’s belt. The face didn’t move down with it. It was completely focused on him and it was like he could feel the stare behind the mask. A trickle of terror-fuelled sweat rolled down his back-

_“Tony?”_

Tony jerked in the vigilante’s hold: the shadow in black didn’t as much as tremble. But then the voice registered.

Boss-man.

The walkie-talkie screamed static- _“Tony, I can’t get any of the boys online; what’s going on down there?”_

Too terrified to answer, Tony stared at the vigilante. _He took out the guards?!_

But the man in black brought his finger up again and rotated it, a _talk to your boss – tell him everything’s fine._

The hand slid off his mouth and encircled his neck; a firm grasp but not tight.

The threat in it, clear.

_Shit._

“A-all’s clear here Mr Somers. You want me to go scout out Bobby?” A guard near the volunteers; they’d snorted coke together a few times. Had a drink. Bought a couple of girls. Good guy.

_Did this guy kill him?_

He was going to piss himself.

_“Yeah. Get him to move the guys along. And again, keep them clear of here. Nocenti’s just arrived.”_

Swallowing, Tony shook; feeling the vigilante’s fingers tighten on his throat. “Got it.”

The walkie-talkie shut off.

Suddenly the mask was an inch from his face. “Find a new boss.”

Before Tony could cry - horrified - at the distorted voice, at the way it hummed and rasped and grated all inhuman-like, the hand at his throat whipped around and his head was jerked into the wall-

Darkness.

 

* * *

 

 

“You talked, Nocenti.”

On his knees, Victor Nocenti couldn’t stop shaking. He was a simple dock worker who’d discovered his boss, Martin Somers, was taking bribes from the Chinese mafia and allowing them to smuggle drugs through the CEO’s personal port. Just a dock worker.

A decent man.

And because he was decent, only hours ago Victor had confessed what he knew about his boss. He hadn’t had the courage to boldly walk into CNRI; he knew he might be seen. And, if he’d had the money, he would have gone straight to a DA and brought that person with him to the police, but the lawyers there? Most were employed by the City’s major business men. Men like Somers. They wouldn’t help him. They’d sell him out for green paper.

Instead he’d found a phone and had called a number. Legal Aid Attorney, Laurel Lance. He’d seen her details online – she’d placed a small ad beside the CNRI workplace number - and he’d needed an ally. She’d agreed to help him, sounding so confident and sure and he’d immediately believed in her.

But what she and Victor _hadn’t_ thought to wonder about was what might happen if Somers had men monitoring him. Or maybe it went deeper. Maybe there someone monitoring CNRI. He didn’t know. It didn’t matter.

“Who was your contact?” Somers asked, seemingly calm in his grey suit and tie. “It wasn’t in the DA.”

Maybe he was too scared to answer… maybe Victor knew that, either way, it was over for him because he didn’t say a word. He’d thought he was so smart, using a pay phone instead of his home phone. Calling this lawyer, who spoke for those who couldn’t pay for full legal representation, because she’d looked determined in that picture of her standing outside of CNRI - a picture that would be in the papers as of 7am tomorrow - and had sounded more so yet knew _squat_ about how men like Somers worked.

All he could think of now, was his daughter. _I’m so sorry._

He’d tried.

Somers sighed, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his hands on them. Wiping his hands of Victor. “Do it.”

There was movement from behind him and not from the guard with the pistol pointed at his face were Victor’s eyes flew to first-

The gun ripped out of the man’s fingers, flying upwards; dragged into the caverns of the warehouse.

Silence.

“What?” Somers frowned at the man, as if it was his fault.

Lighter footsteps – a woman’s – the same from before, clipped behind Victor who couldn’t tear his eyes away from the now unarmed guard. “Has anyone done a headcount?”

“Um…” Baffled, the guard looked to his boss. “I don’t-”

He was yanked up into the darkness with a yelp, before he could tell his boss all the _other_ things he didn’t know.

_What the-_

Heart pounding, Victor scrambled backwards in junction with Somers who was staring into the shadows of the warehouse. But the woman - her hair platinum blonde, her face exquisitely Asian, figure lithe, eyes violent and dark - stood in front of him before he could move further away.

She pulled out a large, curved knife: looking to Somers. “Go.” She jerked her head back to Nocenti. “I’ll take care of-”

The few lights that were present, died.

He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, until static replaced it.

“Tony!” Somers hissed into his walkie-talkie from somewhere close. “Tony, what’s your-”

Out of nowhere, the vanished guard was thrown down, screaming, from somewhere in the rafters as gunfire sprayed recklessly from the rifle on his shoulder, highlighting-

Highlighting a figure up above with the flare, but it moved too fast - too quietly to track - before the light was cut again. _Oh my god…_

A shuffle later and the small light from the rifle clicked on, in Somers’s hand who’d staggered back from the groaning guard; looking far less intimidating and nowhere near the man who’d ordered the Chinese woman to kill him just now. His eyes darted everywhere; an odd fear present there, like he knew _exactly_ what was-

Somers locked on something above Victor, who glanced up with him... and gaped, blanching.

A black ghost streaked overhead; a mass of something – a coat? – surrounding him like an aura and-

And a mask.

Victor stared and – like this creature _felt_ his stare – the face twisted in his direction whilst he moved like a nightmare, the light from the rifle reflecting dimly off its eyes-

“Jesus Christ, he’s _real_!” Martin Somers shouted; recoiling backwards, dropping the light and slamming against the wall there. “We’ve got to go!” Something small and fast hit the wall, _splintering_ it right where Somers’s shoulder had been a _second_ before. “Fuck!”

A spike _?_ A… _claw_? Something thin, metallic, angular, almost delicate looking… that could apparently dig into brick. And wood. And-

“Come on!” Tugging the Chinese woman’s arm, Somers pulled her with him towards the exit-

One, two, _three_ of the things hit the ground and the platinum blonde woman had to quickly move her hand before the fourth was embedded into the back of it.

The hand that been reaching towards Victor’s throat with the knife in its grasp.

A warning.

Somers was already sprinting out of sight and - throwing back the deeply determined look of a woman who knew when to fall back and when to move forwards - the Chinese killer called out. “Next time, Watchman.”

She vanished into the hallway and all Nocenti could do was blink, heart racing, body trembling…

Until he _stopped_ blinking when the- _oh my god; it’s the Watchman_ , dropped down from up high _right_ in front of where he sat, spread eagled, on the floor.

Wide eyed, he gulped. _Please don’t hurt me_. He’d lost his voice.

Why wasn’t it – _he?_ – following Somers and the woman?

Black and elusive, the mask tilted. “Victor Nocenti?” It spoke; an artificial hum that sent a shiver down his spine.

_That’s not human._

Victor gulped… then nodded, because there was no way that this person _wasn’t_ here to help him. Not after this. _Please just give me this_. “Y-yeah?”

“The police are coming; you need to leave before they get here.” _Er, what?_ Weren’t the police, the good guys? “Go to the SCPD’s main precinct in one hour. Ask for Detective Lance. Tell him everything and be discreet or your daughter will suffer the consequences. And go out _that_ way.”

A black finger pointed to Victor’s left instead of his right, where his ex-boss had fled the scene to see a dusty set of hanging sheets.

_“…or your daughter will suffer the consequences.”_

He had to do this quietly or Somers would go after her.

He turned back to the vigilante. “But, what-”

The Watchman had disappeared.

After several seconds of bated breath, so did Victor.

 

* * *

 

 

They were too easy to find, but she didn’t go to them.

Instead, she watched. _It’s what I’m good at._

She’d tagged them, needing to be led to where they kept each shipment: this wasn’t their first. Only then could a drug bust happen. And they’d called the police: standard protocol. Call the police to get rid of the prowler.

“How did he know to be there? Who told?!” Somers - walking fast enough for it to be called a run - was hissing and it was somewhat of a joke to watch the same man who’d calmly ordered the woman at his side to kill an innocent man just minutes before, slowly fall into complete disrepair. “I thought I told you to keep communications to a bare minimum.”

“We did.” Triad internal security was not to be underestimated. If they wanted something kept quiet, then it was kept quiet. “It must have been Nocenti. Or he told someone else-”

“And somehow _they_ told the Watchman.”

After two years of being present in Starling, they still had no idea how she did what she did. Better that no one ever know she was a hacker too.

“Why would he eve care?” Stumbling - sweating - to a halt outside his car door, Somers looked over at the men fleeing with him to the vans; each carrying bags of heroin, meth and money. Some of them just plain running in any direction. “Did we get everything?”

“Everything the police can use to trace us.” The woman stated. “But we need to silence Nocenti. And you need to find a Defence Attorney fit to face Starling’s best and _brightest_.” The snub to the police force was clear.

And, from where she was eavesdropping, _I can’t refute it._

“The acting police chief is easy to handle - he has a history he’d kill to keep silent - but, unfortunately, some of his employees are not.” China continued; standing poised and fearless as Somers all but threw papers and files that would surely tie him to the drugs into the interior of his spotless car. “Get. A. Lawyer.”

Somers straightened, affecting a cool countenance. “Miss White.” A name _…_ and not the one Watchman wanted to hear. “I don’t have that kind of pull with the DA Office yet.”

True. As a criminal, he was brand new and hardly a mastermind. It was why the Triad were using him. He saw dollar signs and reputational advantages. The Triad – China White – saw a means for the Triad to gain another foothold into the City. He had lawyers for his business but not one he could trust to keep his secrets.

“Now’s the time to get some.” China ordered, turning towards her Vespa. “There’s always someone looking for a new client.”

Neck clenching, he nodded before calling out after her. “Find Nocenti’s contact.”

Flipping her hair back, China jutted her chin at him as she threw a leg over her bike, oblivious to the Watchman nearby. _They always are_.

Having tagged his car with a GP’s, the _vigilante_ hid behind a water tank on the opposing side of the cars, letting Somers drive away. It served greater purposes. She needed more proof. Needed to bring him in during the day. Then she could stop him from targeting Nocenti. From targeting Victor’s contact. From smuggling drugs into the city. _Then_ , she could face China White.

Reconnaissance. She’d gain more this way. And she held zero interest in puffing up White’s already inflated ego by starting a fight. Here. Where the woman’s associates were close by. All carrying automatics.

_I hate guns._

 

* * *

 

**Midnight**

Panting, afraid and watching every shadow for movement in an unfamiliar sort of hope, Victor made it into the precinct.

He’d listened. He’d obeyed. For over an hour, he’d hidden. Then, knowing Somers’s men had left; Victor had flat out sprinted towards the nearest bus stop and made it into SCPD’S main building.

No one had chased him.

Shaking, Nocenti watched a man - one sharp eyed, gruff and world-weary - shove open the side doors to where Victor stood in front of the reception desk in a waiting room that was disconcertingly busy. Was this Detective Lance? Had the Watchman told him to wait to give him time to get into the precinct?

The man – Detective Lance – caught sight of him and paused at the sub-par coffee machine; surly and blinking at the sheen of sweat on Victor’s face before peering more seriously at the stark fear in his eyes. Before Victor knew it, the clearly hardened detective had abandoned his search for caffeine and was stood in front of him. He was taller than expected; wiry and alert, given the hour.

But he nodded at the uniform behind the desk first, jerking his head at Victor in question. “What’s this?”

“Sir,” the boy in blue - he was somewhere in his early 20’s and Nocenti shuddered at the random and unwelcome image of the lad covering him under fire - shook his head, arched brows making his eyes seem wider than usual. “You aren’t going to believe this…”

“You’ll be surprised at the things I’ve heard, kid.”

The young officer shook his head. “Sir, this involves the vigilante.” He leaned in as he said it, as if worried they’d be overheard. “And possibly-”

The detective had heard all he needed. “Ok, let’s keep this quiet for now, yeah?” He ordered but an arched brow at Victor – a _why did you open your big mouth_ – made Victor simultaneously flush in embarrassment and fearful frustration. “Come on, let’s take a seat…”

 

* * *

 

 

Dawn was still hours away; more than enough time for sleep.

She’d left the scene; it was impossible to stay with the arrival of the SCPD. She also hadn’t followed Somers or China, knowing they’d go to ground for the evening and then Somers would lawyer up.

When they felt safe, _then_ they’d lead her to their supply.

In turn, she’d checked up Laurel Lance’s case file on Hunt in the smallest of hopes that her father had managed to persuade her _not_ to try and prosecute the man.

He hadn’t.

It’d been all too easy to slip into CNRI; luckily - though she knew Miss Lance sometimes stayed till dinner time - the woman wasn’t the type to neglect sleep to get the job done. Especially since she _wouldn’t_ get the job done.

Her case to prosecute Adam Hunt was _poor_.

She’d stared stunned at Miss Lance’s ‘thought board’. On it, were pictures and print-offs of Hunt and his ‘posse’, of Rob Stellart on his mobile… nothing incriminating in sight.

Laurel Lance had each picture surrounding a word: dubious.

Dubious.

How professional.

The man who’d been stealing money from his clients… was dubious. Excellent deduction. Did Miss Lance come to that conclusion before or after she’d been given the evidence?

Another word sat beneath an article detailing his ‘possible’ embezzlement. This one was ‘culpable’.

3 seconds after looking at the board, she’d felt real fear.

Rob Stellart would eat her alive. All it would take would be for him to reveal that Miss Lance had graduated from law school only one year before and no one would take her seriously.

Laurel Lance had to know that. And the evidence - evidence provided to Ellis and passed to Hilton, _by me_ \- she’d been given was good, but it wasn’t enough to sway a bought Jury. Yet, she was trying to compensate for her that - and her lack of experience - by over-facing them with unnecessary information; aiming to reach them through their love of family, through their conscience.

CEO Hunt was friends with judge Grell; a man Hunt had practically given his re-election to and that even with official evidence, it meant the trial was doomed. And so was Miss Lance.

Mr _Hunt_. If he decided that she was too big a nuisance and he was brave enough to have her neutralised - _knowing_ everyone would know it was him without having any real evidence to the contrary - that his friendship with the upper echelons would save him, he’d do it. In a heartbeat. Which meant, Laurel Lance was already in his crosshairs.

How a woman without credential standing could gain such an enemy, was beyond comprehension. Why had Miss Lance started doing this? And it wasn’t bravery. It was stupidity. Or maybe stubbornness. Maybe she didn’t know just how dangerous Hunt and all the others like him could be because of limited experience. Or, worst of all, it could be pride. Ambition without forethought.

Maybe she had something to prove.

It was absurd.

 _I thought_ … there’d been a chance that Miss Lance was some kind of prodigy in the making and was looking to use her intelligence. She was just like the multitude of other lawyers working at CNRI, except that she thought a _dubious_ man – regardless of money or history or power or evidence – was hers to take down.

The Watchman stared with dread for another minute before returning to her home rather than her safe house. She slipped through the window she’d left open around the back of the building on the second floor.

Switching on the bathroom light, the figure in black stood silent, masked and very still in front of the mirror.

She did this for a long time.

She did this for long enough that Mau, waiting, sauntered into the area; hoping up to the cabinet by the seat. Watching her watch herself.

Then, like coming home – resurfacing – practised hands came up to unseal and unclip the mouth piece of her mask before pulling the entirety if the cowl up from her throat, face and head.

Bottle blond hair - static, alive and almost electric in that moment - blue eyes and pink cheeks were looking back at her in the mirror.

“…Hi.” Felicity Smoak whispered at herself.

Mau purred.

 

* * *

 

 

**Queen mansion, 8:15am**

“What is this?”

At the question, Thea - who had already been looking at her brother - gave a tiny start. “What?”

He gestured to the screen, apple in hand. “That news report.” Reaching for the remote, he turned up the volume. “I don’t understand.”

Frowning at his abrupt interest, she listened as the reporter on WEBG News announced the release of a non-fiction novel, the contents of which pertained to economic change in the city; it went completely over her head. Then she saw a flash of a picture and the headline attached… _ah. Of course_. “Yeah. Looks like Laurel’s started going after the heavy hitters.” Would he actually react to her if they spoke of his ex-girlfriend some more? “Looks like she’s in charge of getting that Hunt guy-”

“No.” One word. Not clipped. Not… anything really. “I know about that, but there was something else; it’s coming up in a minute.”

Quiet too, Thea waited with him.

It was kind of strange how _not_ strange having her brother at home with her was. As if he’d always been _right_ there. As if he’d never died.

_You were with me the whole time._

Maybe that was true. And maybe what she’d said was just as true too.

_I knew it! I knew you were alive._

She’d known. She just hadn’t always believed.

Now, with them both in the lounge; eating breakfast... it was surreal yet, _not_. It was impossible to reconcile. Worse, she didn’t know how to deal with the fact that he was so close lipped after years not hearing his voice. So closed _off_. She wanted to know him.

She wanted him to tell her about the island. _About dad_. She wanted him to smile like he used to; like everything was one big joke. _It would liven up the place a bit_. She wanted him to confide in her.

She wanted to feel connected to him.

Instead, she felt his absence.

He was right there, feet from her, but he _felt_ a 1000 miles away. _Story of my life_. So really, it wasn’t so strange that she didn’t feel any different having him home again. _What was even the point in him coming home?_

Why wouldn’t he talk to her? Didn’t he want to? It was like his family was already an afterthought to him now that he was back. His dickish behaviour pre-shipwreck had never stretched to her before. Obviously, he was just more of the same. Worse, because now he didn’t even spare a thought for his sister.

_Like mom._

Her mother had all but disappeared from Thea’s life the moment they’d found out the devastating truth about her father and brother. Left alone, it had fallen to Raisa to make sure she got to school on time, to see to it that she ate 3 square meals a day and did her homework.

She wasn’t always successful.

 _What can I say? I aim to disappoint in all areas of my life._ It was different now though. _Mom has Walter._ They’d gotten married the year before. But…

She’d thought things would change. That as soon as Ollie got home, everything would miraculously alter and be better. Be more.

Whole.

Instead, his return had only emphasised everything each member of her screwed up family had tried to bury. And for that, she couldn’t help but be angry at him. He came home and made everything worse without making one thing better. That wasn’t how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to return, and she was supposed to heal.

 _Mom doesn’t get it_.

Besotted with Ollie being home, Thea hadn’t seen it either at first. Everything _wasn’t_ better just because he was back. Her mother couldn’t just forget how she hid in her room. She couldn’t brush aside the last 5 years and play the perfect mom with her perfect son and daughter.

It was sickening.

Nothing had changed. Nothing had been addressed. It was one big Merry go Round of ‘the same’.

And yet… when she’d seen him, she’d felt happy again. Truly happy.

It hadn’t lasted long. Not when she felt the barrier between them. Maybe it was simply the stretch of time between them; their relationship had always been uncomplicated and there was ten years difference in their perspectives. But something was else. There was a space there; a place where she… wasn’t. A place that _he’d_ put there, leaving nothing but unanswered questions in his wake, like…

He’d been home for a couple of days, but he’d only eaten with them once and he’d scarcely touch the food he was given. Just like how he was eating an apple for breakfast whilst _she’d_ munched on scrambled eggs and toast. He was huge; how was he living off an apple for breakfast?

_“I’m sure Raisa could fix up another plate.” She was sure Raise already had one prepared for him; just in case._

_He shrugged, passing up bacon for the fruit basket. “I’m not hungry Thea.”_

Lie.

It wasn’t as if she’d suddenly gone blind. She _had_ noticed her brother was _built_ now. Bigger than before. _Brother grew up_. She didn’t know what he looked like beneath the clothes, but it was still different. Just as he was on the inside. Remote.

Blank.

 _Not like now_ , she thought; observing him as he watched the screen with a kind of raptness she’d yet to see in him yet.

 _“More news on the vigilante front.”_ A reporter stated. _“In a surprise report, it seems the Watchman made an appearance last night at the east Harbour. Police presence was verified early this morning as workers arriving for their shift were turned away.”_ The screen alternated away from the newswoman to show the site in question. Judging by the skyline, it was filmed just after dawn and CST’s were glimpsed in a cordoned off area. _“Details of the night’s events are, so far, being kept quiet. However, sources state that the assistance of Narcotics’ (NCJRS) K-P detection dogs were brought in and are still present at the scene. More news on the possibility of a smuggling ring in Starling later today. But for now,”_ once more, the media centre was back in view; images of the crime scene still broadcasting at the top right corner of the screen, _“the sighting of the vigilante has us wondering.”_ The presenter turned to his partner. _“From trafficking to drugs; do you think this is the Watchman’s new target?”_

_“Well, why not; with his hit on trafficking, it’s a logical step forwards. I’m only hoping the mayor will rescind the standing order soon. I mean, how many more of these sightings have to occur before this vigilante becomes an official state in the city?”_

The presenter was nodding alongside her _. “Do you think it’s come to that point?”_

_“I think it came to that point months ago.”_

“Watchman.” And Thea thought it was only _slightly_ weird that she jumped again when she heard his voice. “Who is that?”

She cleared her throat. “That’s right. You wouldn’t know.” She rolled her eyes, _of course he wouldn’t._

“Know what?”

And he sounded… genuinely interested. The first time he had since his return.

She peered at him.

His voice was light, slightly confused – what she figured was his usual expression – and he this kind of arrogant, devil may care attitude about him; as if nothing bothered him. _That hasn’t changed at least. Pure Ollie._ Kind of nice to see…

But he hadn’t taken his eyes off the screen, following the discussion between the presenters.

Would he even react if she answered? Would he notice if she just walked out of the room? “The Watchman is… kind of an urban myth. Or at least he _was_. I’m not sure he exists but someone is out there.” She reached down her school bag. “Whoever he is, he’s made a name for himself; especially in the Glades. The groupies are _real_.”

She’d met a few at her school for rich kids, floozy’s and sycophants. Most didn’t care, thought it was beneath them. But there were a few who _liked_ the idea of a criminal successful in breaking rules and not getting caught. Thought it was ‘totally rad’, _which I’m pretty sure was popular towards the latter end of the 80’s._

“He’s a vigilante?” Oliver turned to her, his brows meeting. Disbelief suffused every inch of him but otherwise, there was nothing she could read. _Typical_. “Starling City has a _vigilante_?”

“Yep. The cops thought it might be him that saved you yesterday.” She absently told him, moving around the couch for her coat. “Go figure. That guy in the hood you described is probably a copycat.”

“…Right.”

“Either way; they’re both criminals.” She finished and, once again, Ollie wasn’t looking at her, but at the tv-

“Oliver.”

Moira Queen - her usually poised and incredibly collected self – walked into the lounge with Walter who greeted them both with a smile and a kiss on the cheek for Thea.

At the sound of his name, Oliver was finally pulled away from the screen. He looked over at them, pinpointing on the stranger standing behind his mother. “Mom?”

She smiled the same smile she used to charm other go-getters, except this was filled with such permissive affection, Thea almost threw up in her mouth. “Indulge me Oliver. I’d like to introduce you to,” she moved aside as if to present the huge, dark skinned, intimidating looking man standing there; as silent as stone, “John Diggle. He’ll be your bodyguard for the foreseeable future.”

_Whoa._

“I don’t need a babysitter.” Oliver immediately contested, looking politely bemused.

Politely.

Thea wanted to scream: _did he even feel real emotion anymore?_

‘John Diggle’ didn’t so much as twitch but Thea recognised _that_ look on her mother, which meant it was _very_ much her cue to make an escape.

“After what happened yesterday,” her mother said, “I would feel much better knowing that you’re safe and protected when you’re not in this house.”

 _Ugh, I’m out of here._ Always a show with the Queen family. She’d see the Robot and her Stepford mother afterschool. Maybe. “See ya.” She waved as she left the room, hating that slice of emptiness inside her and wondered if Christina would get to school on time before the gates slid closed.

There were only so many places a girl could light up after all.

 

* * *

 

 

Bodyguard.

Guarding a body.

It _definitely_ wasn’t holding a semi-auto in desert terrains. And after five years, he still didn’t have a better opinion of it. Except-

“So, is this what you do; you protect billionaires?” Mr Oliver Queen asked him.

It was absolutely cocky as hell.

But his eyes were 100% _not_.

 _There’s something off about this guy_. Not _bad_ necessarily, just ambiguous. Something was in those eyes - that stare - that John Diggle had never seen before in a rich kid, though 27 was pushing it in terms of ‘kid’. “Sometimes.” He aired non-committedly, and it was the truth.

Coming home from war years before, John had protected more than his fair share of the rich and shameless. Their families, secret mistresses and the odd business party. The difference between them and _this_ guy was that, with the former, Dig was wallpaper. Part of the scenery. He didn’t exist to them unless there was trouble, so the chances of being asked questions had been slim to none. They weren’t interested in paid shields and statues. He’d preferred it that way.

But Oliver Queen…

“It can’t be very rewarding.” Mr Queen added, looking him in the eye with very little to go by, expression wise. Save for the slight smile.

_Yeah, there’s something to that._

The near- _smirk_ just curving the side of his mouth. Very devil may care, irritatingly confident and utterly without a care in the world, which meant he could and would say whatever came into his head.

Except - _‘it can’t be very rewarding’_ \- he didn’t think much of himself. It contradicted the look.

_“…is this what you do; you protect playboy billionaires?”_

As if it were beneath him.

John shifted in his seat, adding. “It is what it is.”

“Hm.”

Like he was already bored, his charge peered out of the window to his right. _Of course_. What else had he expected-

“What it is, is my mother’s way of monitoring me. I don’t need to be carted around the city like a prize horse.”

John’s eyebrows arched to his near-to non-existent hairline. _Whoa_.

The king of Passive aggressive.

Surprising. Even more so, was that Mr Queen’s voice hadn’t risen a single decimal. No inflections. Almost monotone. Factual. “Still, I’ve been hired to do a job. You’ll find that I’m very good at my job Mr Queen.”

The guy turned to look at him with _slight_ interest. “Military?”

“Three tours.”

Again, Mr Queen hummed. And there was another moment of silence. “What do you know of this… Watchman?”

 _That came out of left field_. “You’ve already heard about the Watchman?”

“This morning was the first time since I was found that I was near a television.”

Dig cleared his throat. Whatever this was, Mr Queen was showing a remarkable adjustability to his environment after years spent alone on an island. “No one really knows anything about it. _Him_. They say he showed up a year or so ago, started hitting crime where it hurts.” The Watchman didn’t appear discriminatory; something Diggle would have admired.

 _If_ he was real.

“‘They say?’ ‘A year or so ago?’ ‘ _It?_ ’” Mr Queen quietly reiterated.

“Like I said.” Dig met his eyes through the rear-view mirror. “No one really knows, save for the ghost-stories spreading like wildfire. No two the same. Not where he came from or how and when he started. Or why. Not even if he’s real or just someone’s shot at hope.”

“Hope?”

“For the Glades.” For it to return to the place it had once been decades ago. “Though, if I were to believe it, I’d question the logic and morality of somehow who resorts to working outside of the law to make waves.”

And this Mr Queen, he was smart. Fast. “You don’t think he’s what everyone else thinks he is.” It wasn’t a question. And he still had that expression on his face.

“There is someone out there.” Because _things_ had happened. “Whoever it is, whatever he’s thinking,” someone creating this image to make waves, “he doesn’t seem to be doing it for notoriety.”

“What do you mean?”

And for the first time since they’d entered the limousine, he’d gotten Mr Queen’s full attention.

“Well,” John started, “there have been no pictures or statements made, but there haven’t been any results in catching this guy either, which makes me feel less than likely to believe it’s true and not just some cop. Then again, an immediate mandate was issued after the city created the moniker. No newspaper in the city or media site is legally permitted to use the name Watchman in any printed or official piece of work. If it’s not a scam, or a desperate man’s attempt at making waves - or a cop’s stake at revenge - then whoever it is, isn’t doing it for a thank you.”

Which would ultimately, make that person far more dangerous. He understood how it worked, having a wild card working on an altogether different frequency than the rest. Ordinarily, it got that person a bullet to the brain but every once in a while, that person grew too capable to be tethered. To be controlled. Or caught.

It was dangerous.

The media had found alternate ways to circumvent the mandate too: a law rushed into existence, leaves holes in its armour. And the people wanted the hope this person inspired.

Mr Queen didn’t say anything else and the moment stretched…

“Mr Queen?” Dig slowed at a crossing and looked over into the back seat. “Sir-”

There was no one in the car with him.

“What the hell?” He breathed, his eyes darting left and right.

The left side door was, however, wide open and Dig dove for it, closing it just in time to miss the car that almost took it off its hinges. _Dammit_.

Oliver Queen was a pain in the ass. An interesting pain in the ass.

_Damn._

 

* * *

 

**Queen Consolidated, 21 st Floor**

“There you are.”

Only one voice in the whole of the QC building could take her attention away from the promise of coffee, however brief.

Head jerking up from her cup - that was sat on top a tiny table, with her secret coffee stash and welcome absence of employees based in her department - she blinked at the sight of Mr Steele strolling down the hallway towards the dingy kitchen stood in, just one hallway left of her office. “Mr Steele!” She internally eyerolled at herself. _Why do I have to announce him like that?_

At least she hadn’t shot up to her feet this-

_Oh, wait._

She was already right there: ramrod, to attention and pretty much ready to do whatever the frack he asked. But she could congratulate herself on the absence of a near-salute because, _hah_ , _that_ hadn’t happened before, _nope_. Still, he didn’t seem her notice her usual struggling as anything other than the norm for ‘Miss Smoak’.

But what was he doing on the 21st floor?

British accent brushing against the walls, “I’m sorry I haven’t had the chance to talk to you,” he came to a stop just feet from her and it took her a moment to recognise that his usual habit of fixing his cufflinks, might not be so much habit as it was a way to organise his thoughts. “About the other night?”

 _Oh, you mean the night where I took your stepson from the Queen Mansion for a sleepover less than 24 hours after his return and didn’t tell anyone?_ Moira Queen could never meet her. Never. Ever. “Oh. _Oh_. No! I…” Eyes closing – _get it together_ – she shook her head. “It wasn’t-” What? It wasn’t what? _Say words that don’t implicate you in the kidnap of-_

“Relax, Miss Smoak.” He raised a hand - palm out - that she saw when her eyes _peeked_ back open. “Please. You did more than I.”

What did that mean?

Her mouth opened, closed. Opened. “Thank you. Sir.” And it just blurted out of her. “Please don’t fire me.”

“I’m not.” One magnificently coifed brow marginally arched, he looked so used to her floundering he just stepped right over it. “I’m here concerning another matter.”

A panicky smile flickered into existence because, _old habits die hard_. Being alone with her boss… it hadn’t always ended well for her. But this was Mr Steele.

“You did good work with the requisitions order.” He smiled without really smiling at all. “Thank you for the notes you left at the mansion. Mr Stole’s been incarcerated for the foreseeable future; he won’t be returning to QC.”

“Great!” She backtracked, because that was more than one little bit of info for her to process, “I mean, _not_ great in the ‘yay, crime’ kind of-”

“Unfortunately,” he cut in as amiably as he could, “As much as I wanted to, I wasn’t able to pass his position to you. Not yet, at least.” He added generously, as if he feared some great disappointment from her.

She hadn’t even considered it.

 _He’d wanted that?_ To promote her? Without an interview? Just because? It wasn’t just that either; he’d trusted her with sensitive information, trusted her to do exactly what he’d all but implied but hadn’t _said,_ and she’d read him perfectly. She was good at that kind of thing. He’d made a beeline for her and was now thanking her for going above and beyond the requirements of her job. Internal Affairs weren’t called in.

He’d gone to her. And she’d proved, had paid his trust, his gut, right.

 _Huh_. She hadn’t thought about it like that before.

Mr Steele was _definitely_ a far cry from any previous employer she’d had. And she didn’t know what to say, except a surprised, “Okay.”

He nodded. “Good. Keep well Miss Smoak.” He paused for a second as if deliberating. “I must say, those shoes very much become you.” Then he nodded, ignoring her mad blinks. “We’ll talk again.”

“O-oh, okay!”

Crisp as always, he turned; walking back the way he came, leaving Felicity just… standing there. _He noticed my shoes?_ Had Mr Steele always been one of those guys who could appreciate a good - high priced - shoe, the heel of which elongated the legs and the colour working nicely off her skirt?

Maybe it was the British in him.

It hadn’t been an ogle. He was just letting her know and really, it was lovely to be told. She had a secret stash of stylish clothes on one side of her closet – they came with shoes and jewellery – that she’d kept for the future. Maybe she’d be promoted. Maybe she’d have to go to a dinner. Maybe her lack of sophistication beyond the basic appreciation for suit skirts and shirts was part of why her supervisor hadn’t take her as seriously as he should have. Maybe she’d done that on purpose. The image a person projected tended to amount to a lot in the business world: it was why suits and the like, were mandatory.

She wasn’t one of those women who believed she should change her looks to fit with the program. She was a blonde, glasses wearing nerd with amazing leg tonnage; she was already breaking all kinds of stereotypes, but she’d made sure to hold back in her attire. Clothes – the right hair do – can make a person stand out. The shoes even her boss had noticed, _clearly_ made her stand out. Since she knew Walter Steele was a gentleman, she knew it wasn’t a bad thing.

And, in truth, she really wanted to wear those clothes. She just didn’t know why it was so strong in her now after holding back for some time.

Her boss had thought to promote her.

It was warming. _Ten different kinds of flattering, really._ It shouldn’t have been; they both knew she could do her job with her eyes closed, but it was how he said it. Like he’d been pressing for a while but, she knew how it worked. Connections first, ability second. Whoever was being brought in, knew someone in the company. _But now, so do I._

It wasn’t that she’d wanted to move up, job wise. Currently, it suited her best leaving her free to be Felicity Smoak; to be someone who couldn’t be tempted to use any of the power she may be given.

It Technician. Invisible. She didn’t want a promotion. Not yet.

Still, his trust in her… she wouldn’t let it be wasted or tarnished.

But for now, she had matters to attend to.

Office work was easy; even IT techs had to do their part and hers was done and _done_. What wasn’t done? Hunt. Somers.

 _I should have tagged China’s motorcycle._ She flicked her spoon back into its holder a little bit harder than she usually would. _Rookie mistake._

Not knowing about China White’s involvement had thrown her; Somers was now at home, calling up lawyers and the like, instead of doing exactly what she thought he would. Not that he’d need to; China could do it for him. She was using him, and he was letting her - their mutually beneficial _business_ agreement - which meant she might have access to his merchandise. But possibly not the tools to authorise distribution in a city where the majority handhold for the mafia, was the Russians.

And the Italians.

Second to the Yakuza, The Triad held only a symbolic sway in Starling, which was surprising considering the sheer power and influence of the organisation as opposed to the presence of more than 3 entwined mafia _families_ in the city. Factions like the Bertineli’s and the Carta, were _not_ de facto societies embedded in government structure.

Except, in Starling, the mafia of any country and trade, had an unspoken and unofficial accord with the SCPD and the age-old adages. _You scratch my back, I don’t riddle yours with bullet holes. You ignore this deal, I fill your wallet with cash. You exonerate this guy, and I_ don’t _kill members of your family_.

Expecting a hung jury for Somers’s incarceration was tantamount to thinking China White would dutifully hand over her power play. Luckily, Somers _didn’t_ have a Judge in his back pocket. _He’s just a greedy S.O.B._

And thankfully, with Nocenti, it _was_ possible to change the game. A court, one filled with news reporters, would crumble over under an eye-witness. Threatened members of any jury can be brought back towards the light, with the right focus, lawyer and the promise of protection. Police testament. An official investigation. And Somers wasn’t Hunt, nor did he have a judge in his back pocket or a snake named Rob Stellart.

 _A trial may not even be necessary_ , she pondered as she left the kitchen for her desk. _Racketeering and drug smuggling don’t always require a full criminal hearing_. With indisputable evidence, they could just throw Martin Somers in a cell and have done.

It wasn’t until she returned to her desk, alternated a camera feed to her second monitor, that - much like the day before - Felicity’s general equanimity was butchered.

Watching, across the street from the SCPD, Laurel Lance was stepping through the doors of the main entrance.

_Why?_

She had all the evidence she needed - not that it would work with a bought judge - so what could she possibly…

Without taking her eyes off the screen, Felicity set down her cooling coffee and moved in; fingers on the keypad _. Rewind._ Play _. Nothing._ Hunt’s trial wasn’t scheduled until next week: it was too early to start negotiations. Miss Lance had either been mugged, was bringing her father lunch - she wasn’t, unless her tiny shoulder bag had a label with ‘Made in Narnia’ engraved on it - or…

 _Oh, please tell me my gut is wrong_. It seldom was, but she had _no_ reason to immediately consider for even a moment that Laurel Lance was Victor Nocenti’s contact. Somers, he’d said-

_“Who was your contact? It wasn’t in the DA.”_

-And he’d wanted the name. To his credit, Victor hadn’t talked.

So, there was no reason to think that. None whatsoever.

 _Maybe her father called her down?_ Another battle of wills regarding Hunt’s trial. It would make a lot more sense, _I favour the logic_. Besides. There was no way Detective Lance would put Nocenti in danger like that: like painting a neon sign on both the witnesses back and his daughter’s.

Detective Quentin Lance. A gigantic hard ass. Didn’t suffer any delusions about himself and knew there was something wrong with the ‘system’, but he still pushed. Still prodded. Still demanded. It was one of a list of reasons as to why his lieutenant had been happy keeping him wrapped up in the hunt for the Watchman. That, and he was a good cop.#

A good man.

She’d profiled the detective some months before. He was… exactly what the city could use, except that he didn’t know that he was. Or that he could become too focused to the point of obsession. And he’d put blinders on. The force held corruption in its ranks; _admit it to yourself at least, Detective_. He believed that, deep down, all cops were the same as him. If she gave him a little push, he could go either way. He was a stickler for the rules and he’d never broken one. It would take a lot for him to start. 

Maybe it wasn’t the right time.

She thought about his daughter, about his partner…

Maybe.

Releasing exhale that faffed up her fringe, Felicity leaned back a tad. _I don’t like this_. The not knowing. The possibility that she was wrong.

The likelihood that she was right.

Laurel Lance had already placed herself in the crosshairs of one dangerous Businessman, it wouldn’t be a leap to think she’d do it again. To think she was capable. To be bold. To dare with her own life like this and bet on a favourable outcome with nothing to base it on, save her self-confidence.

 _I can’t be in two places at once_. Felicity didn’t scale tall buildings on a nightly basis for her own peace of mind. Mostly, she researched, or binge-watched Netflix. She wouldn’t alter her routine just because a ballsy legal aid attorney wanted to play at being DA. She’d faltered: there were weeks at a time where she’d venture out nightly. And then she’d stop for a while. Take a breath. And then it would be once or twice a week.

But she couldn’t jeopardise the moral integrity of Quentin Lance and what it might do to him if his daughter was hurt by staying out of it. By letting happen what she might be able to stop.

 _I already have cause to believe the SCPD has moles_. But in which division? Homicide? Internal Affairs? The abandoned Vigilante Task Force, the HTPU, Vice… one person or five people on the take? People, who would make sure that the involvement of Miss Lance’s aid in a soon-to-be high-profile case, would get back to The Triad, back to Somers.

She had to be sure first. _Then_ , she could wonder about ambitious lawyers acting as official DA’s. _Is Hunt the first high profile case she’s gone after?_ Or just the first she was granted after CNRI’s recent boon and sanctioned affiliation with the police department?

_Why the hell did she say yes?_

And if Felicity glanced once or twice – three times, four – at her phone for that innocent green flash that signalled a text from _random_ people, then… then she was absolutely ridiculous, wasn’t she?

 

* * *

 

**SCPD**

Laurel peered into the translucent glass panel of the door labelled ‘Interrogation Room 3’; as if able to see through translucent objects by the power of her will alone. “He’s in there?”

It was the closest room to a marked exit, which was what her father had told her when he’d tried to _escort_ her into an unused room. She’d stopped him, demanding they get to the point-

“You’re missing the point Laurel.” Her father _pointed_ out to her and she caught him roughly scouring a hand over his own face, eyes briefly closing. “How the hell did you become Victor Nocenti’s contact?”

She whirled back around, feeling that tension – the excitement – at another opportunity. “He told you?” It would make her his lawyer; his confidant, which meant she could just walk straight in there.

The statement would be as enticing as the act itself.

“Again,” Detective Lance ground out; his dark eyes tapered in exasperation and she wanted to roll her own, “missing the _point_ , Laurel.” _He’s being ridiculous_. “I knew that ad in the paper was going to bring trouble.” He muttered.

“It was good for the office.”

“I don’t care what method CNRI employs to boost a marketing campaign; just don’t use my daughter’s face to do it.”

She sighed. “I really don’t see the problem here.”

“The problem,” and his words were short, low, and to the point; out of fear of being overheard, “is that my daughter is taking cases above and beyond her port of experience-” he pressed on despite the twist of her lips and thin glare, “ _no_ , I’m serious: I’m more afraid that it’ll get you thrown in a river than I am about _this_ guy being shot to death in my own precinct.”

She shook her head, confused. “What?”

He took a step back, caught a breath. “Oh Laurel. He worked for Somers.”

 _You know I’m well aware of that._ “Yes, that’s-”

“Who works for the Triad.” He cut her off and she started. _The Triad?_ “Those are the guys who came in with last night’s shipment at the docks. And the Triad pay off people to kill men like Victor. To kill his daughter. For all I know, there might already be someone in here just waiting to take the shot.”

She immediately pounced on the information. “You mean, a cop?”

“Oh no.” He shook his head. “No, you already have Hunt to deal with and now Somers.” He held up a hand; a sure stop sign that made her itch to circumvent it. “Don’t get a witch-hunt started, not in this building.”

“Why, afraid of what I might dig up?”

He scoffed. “Come on…”

She lifted her chin. “I haven’t started anything yet. But-”

He turned back to her; eyes narrowed, and she stopped. “Don’t you understand the problem here? Really, what were you going to do to keep this guy safe, huh? What are you going to do to keep _yourself_ safe?”

“Well, he’s safe _now,_ isn’t he?” She asked, ignoring the sliver of apprehension he’d just caused because, she hadn’t thought that far ahead. Not really. Nocenti had asked for help and she’d needed intel. She hadn’t thought about who’d keep his daughter safe.

She hadn’t thought an attempt on his life would be made.

“This is what happens with a Corporate case in Starling, Laurel. The head DA’s, they go up against the worst of the worst and often, they fail because the rich have money and with money comes power. You work at CNRI. Not-”

“I heard you the first time you told me this. Remember last night?” Where he’d pinned onto her all his own fears and not one little piece of pride that she was trying to get justice. “I got the message.” Steadfast, stubborn, she folded her arms and knew that no matter how hard she tried, staring down her father was pointless, but it didn’t mean she wouldn’t make her point. “But I’m not stopping, not because of a threat or two.”

“A threat of two…” An incredulous, humourless chuckle left him as her father turned on the spot, his hands interlinking behind his head, as if needing a handhold. Frustrated.

She shifted, unable to see that on him. To know that she put it there, but he needed to understand, to _see_ her. “How did he escape anyway?” She asked, hidden from her father’s sight; her eyes back to the door.

Her dad was silent for a moment. “Did you see the news this morning?”

“No.” Ever since Ollie returned, they’d been blaring non-stop about the miracle of him living 5 years on an island, his kidnapping, his life-story and what he might be doing every second the camera rolled. “Couldn’t stomach it much _before_ his return.” Half of it was lies anyway. And the constant reminder that he’d gotten onto the boat with Sara… just, no.

“…Right.”

“Why?”

He exhaled. “It looks like the Watchman was at the scene last night-”

She looked back so fast, she stunned him. “The _Watchman_?!”

The shadow of Starling, who’d had a genuinely ameliorating effect on her co-workers, who pursued the kind of crime most – even cops – were terrified of stepping into, who’d never been made official. At first, she’d wondered if such a phantom had even been real. Since then she’d heard small snippets from the people she represented - the parents and decent souls of the Glades who’d had their loved ones kept safe - and she’d been dying to learn more about him.

Whoever it was, the man had made justice a real possibility again. And, if there wasn’t any to be found, he’d _made_ some. Wasn’t that just mind blowing? Her father ahd once said that you don’t have to go outside the law to get justice, but she’d seen enough to know that, maybe you sometimes have to.

Who was it? How did he do it?

Joanna, her friend at CNRI, had a picture that her brother had sent her, saved on her phone. On call one-night months ago, he’d managed to snap a shot of a black coat that flared almost like a cape and the shadow of a figure landing beside a car in front of a burning building.

 _Landing_.

In front of a burning building.

And he’d been carrying a child.

Joanna looked at it sometimes as a reminder that her brother wasn’t alone out there. Laurel sneaked peeks whenever she needed to remember that the impossible could happen. Whenever someone let her down, the picture would come out. Whenever someone didn’t pay for their crimes, she’d look at it and hope that they came across the path of the Watchman.

Her dad eyed her. “He said,” he jerked his chin towards the room, “that he’d be dead if it hadn’t been for that guy. _Apparently_ ,” his brows arched in emphasis, “he even spoke to him.”

Even more perfect.

“I want to talk to him.” She told her father. _Bold as brass_ , that’s what he used to say her, back when she was in College. _You be bold as brass and don’t let anyone tell you how it’s going to be_. _You make the rules._ She’d learned well. “To Victor.” And-

And maybe find out a little more about the man in black.

“Look,” her dad stepped into her personal space, “Lucas told me something. The Watchman, he’s done _watching_ Laurel. I’ve never heard about him making someone a visit. He knows about the Hunt case and he isn’t happy you’re anywhere _near_ it. The fact that he’d even bring it up… Hilton didn’t tell me when he spoke to him, but it has him spooked, let me tell you.”

She faltered. “What?” _The Watchman brought me up in conversation?_

And her father clearly did _not_ like that. “He asked _specifically_ that you not be the one to handle the case for Adam hunt’s incarceration; he said you’re in danger and he wanted us to warn you off.”

She swallowed… but inside her, something burrowed in. Two something’s. The first, she understood; no man told her what was safe and what wasn’t. The second, was something else. Something new. Enticing. Not only was The Watchman _real_ , he’d gotten into contact with her father’s friend; coming out of the darkness – which he never did, that they know of – just to keep her safe.

 _Wow_. Yes, she wanted to meet him. Let him know, she wasn’t the type to be quelled. You couldn’t make a difference in Starling without stepping out into the open. The Watchman would know that better than most.

She could be trusted. She could do this.

“The Watchman was the one who found evidence to prosecute against Hunt.” This kept getting better and better. “Hilton picked it up and gave it to Ellet, who went against protocol for some _unthinkable_ reason and handed it off to CNRI instead of the big wig’s in the Supreme Court.” This time a slither fear wormed its way into his features. “Why did you even accept the case?”

She drew herself up. “You don’t think I can do it?”

“That isn’t what this is about! I may not like this guy – vigilantism undermines _everything_ I stand for as an officer of the law – but I haven’t been able to get squat on whom he might be or why he’s even doing what he’s doing. But he showed himself close-up, to my _partner_!” For a moment, Laurel felt it the same way her father did; he was fearful that this meant change. That it was the start of the Watchman taking bigger risks and maybe, becoming more prone to violence. Except all she could see, was a better Starling. _Let the Watchman do his thing. I say bring it on._ “And that means something to me. It means he’s _unsatisfied_ \- the bogus way Lucas described it - like he can just _decide_ like that, that what we’re doing isn’t good enough and instead of feeling like this could be a great thing, something we can use to get this bastard, I’m terrified that it means _I_ should be watching my own daughter!”

He was taking this way too far. “You can’t just-”

“At the docks, there are shell casings from last night. There’s evidence of a fight that we know nothing about because both sides cleared their tracks before we got to the scene. They knew how to do that and let me tell you, I do _not_ like being second place at a crime scene. But there is one man in traction at the hospital and he’s not talking. Whatever happened to him, I figure the Watchman got to him.” He let out a long breath. “We have no idea what he’s really capable of, except that he’s dangerous and the idea that he’s unhappy with this precinct, with Ellet, is not something I wanted to know. If he or Somers or Hunt finds out that you’re still working both cases, it could mean a death sentence.”

“You’re overreacting.” She shook her head, near-done with this conversation. “The Watchman doesn’t kill people.”

“That we know of!”

“Dad,” she quietened, beseeching, “I think he’s just trying to help.” The city. The people in it…

“Help?” Her dad spat. “He challenges the _badge_!” Hands out, he slashed them through the air in emphasis. “You need to listen to me; rich people like Hunt and Somers, they can hire hitmen Laurel. You don’t want to know just how easy that is for some of these guys. They don’t pull the trigger, so they get away with it!” He pointed at her. “You, me, Lucas; the three of us are the only people in the building who know Nocenti is connected to Somers and that he tried to have him killed. If that gets out, we piss of people like the Triad and then what do we do? What am I supposed to _do_?!”

She flinched; he was getting to her. “Stop shouting at me!”

“Then listen to me, dammit; trust me!”

She gritted her teeth, galled by his hypocrisy. “Funny how your ‘listen’ sounds like ‘do as I say’.”

Hands shoved into his receding hairline, her wiry father looked about ready to snap. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“Nothing has happened to me.” He scoffed; his expression unchanging. “I’m being perfectly safe. Watching where I walk, where I park – I’m going to be fine.”

“You think that’s all it takes? Watching your own back? You know, I thought after what happened with Sara-”

She shut down. “I’m not here to listen to this.” _That isn’t fair_. He didn’t get to bring up Sara. She had enough reminders with Ollie’s return and she’d already told her ex where he could go. She secured her bag onto her shoulder, lips pursed. “Can I go in to see my client now?”

Gaging her, Quentin Lance’s throat moved as he took a breath. “Has he paid you yet?”

“No.”

“Has he signed a contract?”

She pursed her lips. “No.”

“Then he’s not your client.” He growled.

Growled.

_At me._

No one growled at her; not for any reason.

“Funny dad,” eyes narrowed, her hand reached for the door handle, “I wasn’t asking for permission. I was asking to make you feel like you were in charge, but since you’re going to be like that…”

She’d driven her father apoplectic in the past, but it had been few and far between. “You are in a police precinct, you can’t just-”

She pushed on through the door, ignoring her father and immediately rounding on the man sat behind the table, who looked tired. Afraid. In need.

 _I’m here_. “Mr Nocenti.” She started, knowing full well her father had followed her in here but since she’d pushed him, she wasn’t eager to try and force him leave. That was a fight she knew she’d loose. “I’m Laurel Lance; I spoke to you on the phone yesterday morning?”

“I know who you are.” Grey hair, short beard; Victor had the appearance of a hard worker and though he was clearly scared, he also wasn’t giving into his boss. _Good_. Brave. “I remember your voice. And your picture is in the paper.”

She smiled. “As your legal advisor, I suggest you-”

“I shouldn’t have called you.”

She stopped. “I’m sorry?”

The look in his eyes almost made her sit down. They were the kind only a father could have. “Neither of us knew what we were doing.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I was that stupid.” He breathed, staring up at her. “If it hadn’t been for the Watchman, I would have _died_ last night. And he told me not to speak to anyone except for Detective Lance.”

Thrown, Laurel hazarded a glance at her father stood behind her. _He didn’t mention that little piece of information._

And, by the hard look on his face, it wasn’t because he’d been looking to trip her up. “Why would he do that?” He asked Nocenti, taking a step forwards.

Victor shrugged, hands spread. “I don’t know. But I have a daughter. The man who saved my life told me to go to you. What you say goes.”

Head tilted, her father stared at Victor but she stared at her father. It made sense: he was an honest cop, a good man. They should be working together, not apart. Maybe… maybe they should _all_ be-

“Alright.” Arms unfolding, her dad gestured to her without looking at her face. “But I don’t want my daughter representing you.”

_No…_

Feeling that old ire - the kind that had started to fill her up years ago when what she wanted to see in her father, didn’t come to pass - when he’d side with her sister over her, when he wouldn’t see that everything she was trying to do was to make him proud - she opened her mouth to protest; offended that he would go so far to undermine her like this, when Victor nodded.

Her mouth closed.

“Fine.” He simply said.

_Excuse me?_

Her father showed no remorse. Nothing at all that told her he understood that he’d just hurt her. He spoke of the vigilante undermining him when he’d just done the same to his own daughter. Didn’t he understand what this meant to her?

She felt like she’d been smacked.

Rejection.

Lack of faith.

No respect.

They didn’t believe in her.

 _Like you gave them any reason to_ , a voice in her head whispered back to her.

Eager to bring a bad man to court, she’d encouraged a father to walk to his death; she hadn’t thought what might happen would _actually_ happen. He’d taken the steps, but she hadn’t-

 _But, how could I?_ That kind of thing – drugs, smuggling, murder – it happened to other people, not to her. The victims she helped, they were the ones who felt it. Which was why she did what she did. Because they needed someone. And she could do it _without_ having to know what it was like, without having to be a victim. _I shouldn’t have to be._ Empathy without sympathy.

She may never have been a victim of crime, but grief was a thing she knew. Betrayal.

In the court room, it meant she wouldn’t be ruled by her emotions but for the first time, her father was blocking her from helping the innocent victims in the city. From exacting justice in a way that was safe at the same time as being right.

_Maybe it’s time to not be safe anymore…_

Laurel Lance walked out of the room the way she’d walked in; with her head held high.

And the very worst conclusion drawn.

Like her father had said, she’d missed the point.

 

* * *

 

**Starling City General Hospital, 8:30pm**

Hospitals were the safety zone.

The beeping of the monitors, the general quiet, the odd hustle and bustle of the nurses and doctors; it has its own noise. Its own smell. An atmosphere in general; all designed to make a person feel safe as they lie in bed and wait to get better.

The security fop - the mercenary - knew he was a dead man.

Lying on his back, eyes wide open, he strained to listen to every abnormal sound; every click, swish and clop was a chamber being cocked, a body brushing by a curtain and a polished shoe on the floor outside his room.

Unable to sleep or eat, he knew that if he so much as twitched a lip to the cop who’d asked him those questions hours earlier, he’d be getting a visit from the Triad. There wasn’t much he knew about the Chinese Mafia, or anything at all about drug smuggling. He was a gun for hire. He was promised money to be muscle; that was all. There were tonnes in the city; more than a dozen in the Glades alone that he knew by name.

Normally, if you were hurt on the job; you’d keep shut. Slip out of the hospital and report to the boss. Then you’d get paid. He’d done it before.

Regardless of how little he knew, he knew enough to know that the Triad didn’t like lose ends of any kind. They didn’t take chances. They wanted to set up shop in the Glades, and that couldn’t happen with a wannabe cop, playing criminal hotshot.

And he was far from being a hotshot.

He’d applied to Starling SCPD years before and had been accepted. Two months in, he’d fallen into a web of lies, extortion and pay offs that he’d been on the take after his first official arrest as a beat cop. He’d quit a year later; _if I’m going to commit crime, I should commit crime. Be honest about it. No hiding behind a badge_.

Except there’s nothing even a badge of the law can do against-

_-Aa tug at the back of his coat and he hadn’t been quick enough to say something to his boss - to the confusion on Mr Somers’s face - before his body was heaved up, launched into the rafters of the warehouse. Lungs blocked by shock, he couldn’t shout out at the height, at the darkness around him-_

_His head cracked on a solid beam. Dazed, he barely felt the hands that caught him - his feet scrambling on a beam - and couldn’t see much of anything as one of them forced his arm around, almost pulling the joint out of place. He would have yelled, but the other hand caught his mouth in a tight bind._

_There was a dark shape crouched inches from him._

_It didn’t speak, didn’t move a muscle._

_Until suddenly he was airborne again, another tug on his jacket by whatever wire was caught there and the black mass continued moving: a foot thrown into his stomach and he was hurtling towards the ground, his index finger reflexively pulling on the trigger of the rifle he’d forgotten about and firing off a dozen rounds before-_

Darkness.

He’d dreamed of it just now; being surrounded by darkness, being moved about like a rag doll, having no control before – _lights out_.

He should have remained a cop. He’d have cop buddies right now if he did, but it was too many years ago and he wasn’t smart enough to go through that again, to take exams and _try_ and worm back into the system. To be decemt.

Dread licked at his insides as he whispered. “I should have stayed a cop.”

“That wasn’t your first mistake.”

Breath hissing in through his teeth, his heart knew before he did: the monitor beeped progressively faster, measuring his panic and he’d barely managed to look to his left towards the window where the voice came from, before a gloved hand - déjà vu - was pressed over his mouth.

Before a black mask was leaning over him. “Quiet.”

 _That isn’t normal._ The voice. The steady strength of the palm. _I can’t even see his eyes_.

“You scream,” it said, slow and steady, “or call for a nurse, or make _any_ noise beyond a polite whisper,” in fact the voice coming from behind the facial partition was barely above a whisper too, but it was so civil that instead of it setting him at ease, the hum of whatever was making the voice sound that way, put him increasingly on edge and that was _without_ the hand cover his mouth, “I’ll personally make sure the hit man who just entered the building, finds this room.”

The panic – fear – in his eyes must have been clear because the black void, this- this _freak_ in a mask, spoke to him again. Slower than before. Smoother. “If you answer my question, if you do what I ask,” the palm pressed him still, “you won’t have to worry about being killed in your sleep.”

He stared at the mask, baffled.

He _believed_ it.

And… well, it was one question.

Heart rate slowing, it was enough for the vigilante to lean back a tad - let up a little - and when the mask caught the dim light, it actually helped. It wasn’t _void_ of features. It was sublime, smooth, symmetrical, weirdly _slinky_ ; but the inhuman aspect of it still twisted his stomach.

The hand left his mouth. It hung nearby; a loosely curled threat.

The mask straightened. “Where does Somers keep his wares?”

He didn’t need to ask what the vigilante meant by wares. He cleared his throat. “I don’t know.” It was the truth, but the absolute stillness of the man stood over him made him babble on. “I’m just a gunman. I secure ops and I get paid. I don’t know anything about nothing.”

It took three excruciating seconds for the mask to respond with, “I believe you.” _Thank God_.

But then the man in black shifted; head and face - though he couldn’t see his eyes, he knew they’d been fixed on his the entire time because when he moved, it felt like gravity or something has lessened on his chest - lifting and tilting. Looking towards the exit. “Stay quiet.”

He’d barley blinked before the mask was gone. _What the hell…?_

For several minutes, he lay in a kind of disbelieving stupor. The Watchman was real and there might be someone in the building who wanted to kill him-

The sounds of soft flesh hitting something much more solid, echoed into his room.

Heart rate climbing again, he struggled into a sitting position; his head throbbing in effort. Ears focusing. Eyes fixed on the open doorway.

A stifled pound of fists, a muffled shout, a body hitting a wall… then something being dragged across the floor.

 _Oh god_. He didn’t even know what he was hoping to see at the moment.

But then the mask strolled back into the room, his body bent to accommodate the weight of the man he was pulling cleanly across the smooth linoleum by the back of a jacket. Whoever the body was, he was alive and cradling his knee; blood leaking from a lip.

The vigilante looked completely fine.

At the window nearest to his bed, the mask forced this ‘assassin’ into a seated position against the wall and the merc in the bed got a look at him.

50’s, long hair - he could belong in a rock band – and… a Chinese man? _No_ , Korean? _The Triad sent a Korean?_

“He’s cheap.” The mask muttered, answering his silent question and making him jump. “A thug.” He stepped closer, standing over his captive. “He’d probably asphyxiate you with your pillow. Quiet. _Long_ execution. Cheapest death. Low-priced hitman.”

He said it all like it as numbers on a fax sheet, like it wasn’t making the merc want to throw up.

“And he’s going to tell me,” the hum of whatever was making that voice sound like that, sent chills through him and the mask locked down on the face staring up at him; the thug’s beady eyes drawn in pain, “what I want to know.”

The cheap hitman hissed a breath through clenched teeth; blood and spittle bubbling out. But he didn’t talk.

“Does China White know the identity of Victor Nocenti’s contact?” The mask asked.

The man on the floor grit down further. “Fuck you.”

“China White doesn’t appreciate failure.” The mask tilted, observing the way the hurt man seemed to curl in on himself. “You know that. She won’t forget you exist, whether you talk or not.”

“I-” A wave of pain shut the man up for a moment. “I ‘ain’t telling you shit.”

“You’re already looking at me; you don’t have to say a word.” _What?_

That was odd.

The mask lifted a hand, bringing it up to his eyes and _did_ something to the side of his face, where the mask changed. And he had no idea what it was, but the shiny black sheaths separating his eyes from the rest of the world, slid up.

But it was too dark to glimpse colour.

The mask stared down at the man for a few seconds. “China White.”

The man on the floor swallowed, his forehead furrowing.

“China White.” The mask repeated, bizarrely; in the same tone. “Victor-” he paused, head slanting again. “Thank you.”

_Ok, what the-_

A leg lifted, foot shooting out and planting the thug’s head back into the wall behind him. Lights out indeed.

Then the mask turned to him. _Oh no-_

“Do you have a pen?”

“Uh…”

 

* * *

 

**20 minutes later, same Hospital room**

Detective Lance looked down at the unconscious criminal, listening to the idiot in the bed as his eyes stared at the note sat in the unconscious man’s lap.

The note signed, ‘For Detective Lance’.

“…then he just asked for a pen,” the idiot criminal blathered, “and went and took one from the nurse’s station.” The staff were on call and the few around, had been conveniently on break. “He wrote that. Told me to ask for you and only you.”

And _that_ \- what the hell was that about? Why was the vigilante focusing on him suddenly? Why had he even spoken to Hilton before now? Why the interest in his daughter’s professional life?

Add to that, the vigilante had the audacity to tell him how to do his job.

 _‘For Detective Lance’,_ the note read, _‘he tried to kill the gun for hire. Victor Nocenti has a daughter. You know what happens next.’_

Yeah, he knew. They’ll send someone to take her hostage; make Victor bend, make him lie on the stand. They’ll probably kill her. _I already know_. But he had to keep this quiet. He was pretty sure that no one in his department held any tie to Somers or the mafia…

He did _not_ like that the vigilante was right. And he’d get him, eventually. “Did he say anything to you?” He asked the moron in the bed. “Do anything odd?” _Give me something new to work with, please._

“Uh, no; he just asked about Somers.” He swallowed. “If I talk, can I get police protection?”

Years ago, Quentin would have thrown him in the lion’s den, just for asking that kind of question. By now, he knew he had no choice. Criminals tattling on criminals. And for that, the guy would get a kind sentence. _As if he deserves it_. Accessory to commit murder. _He isn’t an innocent bystander; he stood there, watching as Somers had Nocenti on his knees, ready to be killed._ “Fine. Tell me.”

“He asked about where Somers might be keep the drugs. I didn’t know; I’m hired to stand guard, not help with internals.”

“Some job you did.” And if Quentin wrought an ounce of pleasure from the embarrassment on the guys face, he wouldn’t hide it. “What else?”

“He knew The Triad would send someone after me.” Of course; Somers was exactly how he looked; a rich businessman but _young_ criminal. He wouldn’t be the one to send the hit. “After the mask caught him, he dragged him in here and asked whether someone called China White knew the identity of Nocenti’s contact.”

All at once, his stomach knotted and his heart started to pound. _No, not my daughter_. “And?!”

Thrown by his shout, the Mer licked his lips. “H-he didn’t tell him. He was in a lot of pain.”

Not helpful. _Jesus Christ_. Did they know? Was Laurel about to be-

“But, the freak in the mask- he ah… he did something weird when he didn’t tell him.”

“What did he do?” After several seconds of nothing Quentin barked, “ _What?_!”

The man swallowed. “Well, he just… _looked_ at him. And he said, ‘China White’. Then he said it again and it was like he heard something I didn’t because he stopped, said thank you and then kicked the guy’s face in.”

Squinting at the guy, Detective Lance had no idea what to do with that.

“It was kind of spooky, man. I mean, the whole time he was looking at me, I thought I could feel it, you know? Feel him looking at me.”

And where Quentin wanted to scoff, wanted to laugh at the childish fear in the man’s voice, he couldn’t… because he’d heard something like this once before, only he’d dismissed it then. He couldn’t now.

It didn’t stop the sharp acerbity in his tone however when he asked, “what, you think he’s psychic?”

“I don’t know!” The tang of _Boston_ rang in that accent. “All I’m saying is that, he isn’t normal.”

_Don’t I know it._

He’d been trying to catch this guy for over a year, before he was put back in Homicide mid-March. They’d gotten nowhere, and good men had been pulled off cases that needed attention. But he still felt bitter about it. Another criminal he couldn’t bring in.

A criminal who bags criminals.

What was worse, was that he didn’t really hate him for undermining the law – _which he does, all the goddamn time_ – nor did he hate him because he was a criminal who knew more than the police did at times, but didn’t share his knowledge.

He hated the _reminder_.

After more than 20 years of being a cop, he’d slowly watched as Starling fell into the kind of corruption he didn’t know how to fight or halt the progress of. The SCPD weren’t getting the job done. Loose ends, faulty evidence, bought juries, lack of staff or funds in the force, corrupt judges and a crime wave that seemed to just _never_ end…

The vigilante added to that: it was lawless behaviour. It had to be stopped. _He_ had to be stopped.

And yet, sometimes he wondered if-

When his mobile rang, he shook himself off that particular precipice and brought it up to his ear. “What?”

 _“Hello to you too.”_ Lucas candidly said. _“It’s Adam Hunt. You aren’t going to believe this: he said a man in a green hood just attacked him, with a bow and arrow.”_

His brows lifted. “Come again?”

_“It’s exactly as it sounds. This should be interesting.”_

“Yeah,” he breathed, “no kidding.” It was the night for it. “’A man in a green hood’. We’ll put an APB out on Robin Hood, first thing.”

_“Oliver Queen was right.”_

“Che. For now, but I wouldn’t put stock into this just because two rich guys said they saw the weirdo.”

_“Where are you anyway?”_

“Er,” shooting the idiot now snoozing in the bed a glare, he came out with, “You know how there’s talk about the Vigilante being at the docks the other night?”

_“Yeah?”_

“Turns out he really was there. The guy in the hospital? He just fessed up in exchange for police protection after some _other_ guy tried to kill him.”

_“You’re not kidding. Back up a second…”_

“I know what you’re going to say.” He exhaled. “The vigilante saved his life and… look, we need to put some guys on Laurel.”

_“Why?”_

He turned towards the same window the vigilante probably left through; no point dusting for prints. The man was methodical, and Quentin had done this - had searched for clues - a hundred times before. “If Somers finds out that Victor contacted her-”

_“Relax, she isn’t his lawyer; you made sure of that. And if they find out about her, it’s only because we open out big mouths.”_

His breath fogged up the glass as he stared into the night. “Yeah.” What must it be like, leaving out of windows instead of walking through doors?

Feeling like you had to, because-

He shook it off. Shook off the fact that he may have wondered what this… _Watchman_ might be feeling, thinking, a lot over the past 18 months. Behind the mask, he was a person. And he was trying. He was succeeding.

 _And he’s a criminal so, enough_. “I think he’s just getting started Lucas.”

_“You mean, The Watchman?”_

“When has he made contact like this before? Something’s going on his head.”

_“And the last 2 years, that’s been what; foreplay?”_

“Maybe.”

There was a moment of silence. _“We’ve been off the manhunt for months and we finally got some work done. Let’s not go stirring up trouble until it finds us, ok?”_

It was the same tone he’d used before on Quentin, so he knew that Lucas was getting worried about him. About his ability to grow obsessions like weeds grow in gardens.

 _But I’m right, I know it_. “Where’s Hunt now?”

_“He’s at his office. Doesn’t feel safe without his security detail.”_

“Where was he attacked?”

_“In an underground parking garage; his car’s being towed but he’d already got his lawyer in by the time the pickup arrived. We can’t look at it for evidence now.”_

Disbelief made him sneer. “So, he wants our help, but he doesn’t want us to know anything?”

_“Pretty much.”_

He nodded at himself. “I want to talk to him.”

_“Figured you might.”_

“Can you send someone you trust up here to secure this-” he corrected, “ _these_ creeps?”

_“Sure.”_

Mobile shut, he turned to leave; praying to god that this was all one big joke on his life. _As if I ever been so lucky._

 

* * *

 

…If Quentin Lance had stepped closer to the window, if he’d leaned in and looked into the shadowed area outside, he might have seen her.

Perched in the nook between wall and window – her hand a claw against the brick – Felicity had heard every word.

And was… confused.

_What is this?_

Concerned.

_A man in a green hood._

Starling never ceased to astound, but this felt different. Hunt had been approached by a man who’d deliberately covered his face, who’d threatened him with a genuine bow and arrow and it had been intimidating enough that the same businessman who was currently facing a criminal trial, was now requesting police protection.

It could mean a number of things. Or just one thing. Maybe nothing.

She didn’t know.

It was intolerable. She hadn’t heard word on the streets, hadn’t picked up anything on her feeds, her broadcasts, her infiltrator software… how could this person just show up? What did he think he was doing?  

She was in the dark.

She didn’t like being in the dark. It went against the grain.

Thinking _that_ , went against the grain. She _lived_ in the dark places. Sometimes. But And the light could hide more than a shadow could. She saw that more than anyone. Where before, she thought she could leave this to the cops – an errant man or woman, looking for a little payback – she realised it may yield more of the same.

They’d been trying to catch her for years after all.

 _Leave it be_. There was still a chance this was nothing. Let the police take things from here… and if this person was legit, if they had a reasonable cause, if they were something more than the average spirit of vengeance or good Samaritan, then she’d get stuck in. For now, she’d listen.

She’d watch.

 

* * *

 

**11:25pm, Foundry**

_“You’re going to transfer $40 million in Starling City bank account 1141 by 10pm tomorrow night.”_

_Wide eyed, anger made Hunt spit. “Or what?” But he saw the fear there too. The surprise at seeing a man in green leather, take out his guards and aim an arrow at his face._

_It worked. “Or I’m going to take it,” he leaned in; his hood hiding his eyes, “and you won’t like how.”_

_It would work._

Deeps breaths expanded his chest, making the memory exceptionally clear. He’d always had a vivid memory. He’d learned over the years to make it more so and he used it now to replay every second of his encounter with the first name on the list, which was how he knew what would happen next.

Adam Hunt wasn’t going to do as he’d asked.

 _Fine_. He hadn’t expected him to.

He hadn’t _wanted_ him to. And now, it was going exactly as planned.

He needed to make an example to the other people on the list. He needed them to know that he wasn’t some street thug, looking for revenge. He wasn’t some random citizen who’d had enough with the way the city was being run or someone who thought violence was the only way.

He had means. He had the will. He was capable of carrying out every threat, intent and promise.

And he was coming for them.

It was premeditated. All of it. And he knew that there was only so much these men and women could communicate to the police with their closet full of skeletons and shadows. In large part, they couldn’t risk their money, their affluence, and their empires on inviting the law into their houses. They _had_ to pay attention to him. They had to listen… or he’d ruin them.

He’d do what his father had wanted to do himself.

Eradicating the city of infection required a surgeon. It would take time. _Time is all I have._

Time and lies.

Still, getting started - having a purpose - had made the last 72 excruciating hours, slightly less so. The pain at seeing his family again, at knowing he could never show them - they could never know - who he’d become, was nothing compared to the duty of honouring his father’s memory. He could take it.

He didn’t have an endgame. He’d continue until it killed him. It probably would.

Except-

_“No one really knows anything about it. Him. They say he showed up a year or so ago, started hitting crime where it hurts.”_

-How was there a vigilante in his city? _Why?_

It wasn’t part of the plan.

He needed… intelligence.

He could do research. He could-

_"I've only lived in Starling for about two and half years. But I did some research. Research is something I do a lot of…"_

-He could ask… a friend.

Would it be pushing it?

A harmless question or two, to the woman he hadn’t expected. Who’d given him a quiet place to just be for a while. A stranger who he’d been more open, if not remotely honest with, in years; not just since his return to the city. He’d talked to Anatoly, to Tatsu, but this was different. _She_ was different.

She’d made him feel like there was nothing to hide.

It was dangerous: there was everything to hide. More than once, he’d had to check himself.

 _I shouldn’t contact her_. Though he had her number on the burner phone she’d given to him. He’d checked it out: it was legit and outrageously enigmatic, down to the specifics. Untraceable. It begged questions. The fact that there was a dormant GPS on it… he couldn’t do anything about that, beyond removing it and that might damage the phone, but it hadn’t occurred to him to be bothered by that. It should have. But it hadn’t.

_“My mouth kind of runs away with me.” She whispered, dropping her hand, still somewhat insecure._

It hadn’t.

It was dangerous.

He’d find some other way to get the answers he needed.

Another deep breath and he uncurled from the rafter up ahead – finished with his upper-body lifts - before silently dropping down to the floor.

Straightening, Oliver looked about him; feeling the cool air against his warm chest. He’d done a lot in 12 hours. He hadn’t finished but there was a space he could work in now and any further alterations he could use as part of his physical regimen. A bench, tools, two tables, chairs, his trunk… he had the means to start. So, he had.

Adam Hunt hadn’t known what hit him. _And neither will Warren Patel. Jason Brodeur. Or any of the others_.

In beginning here - in the dark, dank, steam filled Foundry; the basement of a factory that once held a lot of hope - it felt like providence. The very factory his father had shut down, the factory that had helped the Glades fall farther, was the same place he’d set up.

But he couldn’t technically do a thing without raising alarms, until he’d been officially declared a living, breathing member of the Queen family. He couldn’t move about the city without worrying his family - without them having him watched or followed - until he made an appearance at his welcome home party, which would be-

He checked his phone, sighing.

Tomorrow night. 8pm.

The party was practically next door to Hunt International: Tommy had given him 4 options for a locale and, miraculously, one of them had been the perfect cover.

It was the start of a clock.

It was Tommy thinking he’d gotten his partner in crime back. It was his mother just waiting for him to ask for the keys to the kingdom. It was his sister, hoping he’d share with her his memories. It was Laurel who’d looked at him with the kind of bitterness that had clearly been simmering beneath the surface, Laurel who’d wanted him to give her something he didn’t know how to give. A way to make it all better. It was the city, affirming the return of the billionaire playboy.

It was himself, pretending he hadn’t died in the South China Sea.

It was taking the hood and the bow, honouring what had died, and he couldn’t _wait_ to get started.

For now, he had to get back to the mansion. He’d pushed it; _mom will be worried_. She’d get used to her selfish son disappearing on her soon enough. But for now, he could at least be there for breakfast.

For one more morning.

After all, Hunt’s version of targeting his opposition - Laurel - was to charge for a change of venue. Debilitating in the court of law for any lawyer, but hardly a threat on her person. He had tomorrow to pretend.

 

* * *

 

**CNRI, 9:35AM**

“It’ll be super sad if you say that you’re working tonight.”

Focus broken, Laurel glanced up from her desk at Tommy. “What?”

He lifted a finger in point. “I have it on good authority,” he gestured to Joanna, who sent her a _told you so_ smile as she left to pick up her binder, _thanks a lot_ , “that you get off work at 5 and the party isn’t till 7.” Bracing against her desk, he leant forwards, smiling. Hoping. “I want you to come.”

 _He’ll ask you to go, you know he will_. Joanna had reminded her, the day before, that Oliver Queen’s return did in no way, dampen the obvious thrill Tommy Merlyn continued to feel in seeking her out. It was a game, she knew that. But it was one she’d stopped enjoying a while ago. “No offense Tommy,” she exhaled as she stood, locking eyes with him, “but Oliver Queen’s welcome home bash is hardly my idea of a fun night out.”

She’d rather have dinner with her mother.

But Tommy smiled like he knew she’d say that, except he then grew sombre. Serious in a way she wasn’t used to seeing on him. “Listen, I ah…” tentative, he gave her such a soft look that her mind immediately (unwelcomingly) flashed to a little over a year ago, with him looking down at her in bed and offering to make omelettes. “I know it’s not ideal.” And he looked so nervous. “I know he hurt you. But he was lost at sea-”

He lost her with the ‘but’. He was here for Oliver’s sake. Not hers. And any apology or excuse ending in a caveat, wasn’t one. “Thanks Tommy,” by her tone and the way he winced at it, she wasn’t grateful at all, “but I’d prefer to pretend that the years of Oliver and me, didn’t exist.”

Or the year of her and Tommy. _What had I been thinking?_

Three years after Ollie and Sara were declared shipwrecked, Laurel and Tommy had slept together. They’d been lonely and weak and punishing themselves for what they couldn’t change. And it had been so natural, falling into bed with Tommy Merlyn, it had almost been like… falling into bed with Ollie.

And she had no explanation for what happened next because it was only supposed to be once. Just one accident, one very human mistake. But once became twice and an accident became a pattern, one she’d looked forward to. No strings. Just honesty. She hated that she had, but he’d understood her. The only one who really did, and the connection was attractive.

She’d never considered Tommy that way until then.

She couldn’t deny that he was good at it, at making her feel special. Even during sex and she’d needed that. To feel like she was his dream girl, knowing that it was just his way if saying ‘thank you for the fuck’.

That’s all they’d been. Fuck buddies. Secret bootie calls. _Never again._

It wasn’t like her. To give in like that. To have a one-night stand that started a rinse-repeat course that lasted almost a year.

Last year, she’d put a stop to them screwing around for nothing more than a few moments of escape, _no thank you_. It wasn’t how she’d wanted to live - she’d wanted more than to be seen as a hook-up - and she knew his ways. She knew that he liked to go to a bar, pick up a girl and take it from there. _I’m not that girl_. But it’s all they’d ever be, and she refused to be a long-lasting notch on what she hazarded was a very wide bed post.

 _Very_ wide.

Hers was not.

She wouldn’t widen it, and after a time, she hadn’t needed it anymore, what with finishing her final year at Law School. Having that focus. The sex became a distraction. She had justice. She had the law on her side. Sex could wait.

She’d opted for the less conventional option there too: complete an additional 3 years internship under an official DA whilst completing the programme _or_ gain her certificate almost immediately _without_ it and hope to find a position somewhere that didn’t demand her to have the usual requisite 3 years of experience post Law School.

She’d already known when she’d decided this, that CNRI were desperate for staff. That they made concessions. It allowed her to stay in the city where she grew up and, in less than two years, no one would question her lack of experience.

“I get that.” Tommy said, hedging for caution - she knew - as she moved past him towards the filing cabinets. Done with this conversation. “But Laurel-”

 _No_. Again, she cut him off. “Don’t tell me that he’s changed.” She didn’t want to hear it: Oliver and come back exactly the way he’d left. Mr hotshot. The prodigal son. Handsome and alluring and everyone wishing him the best. Where were the people who saw him as the man who’d gotten her sister killed? The adulterer. Turning back to Tommy, her voice was quite calm considering. “Don’t tell me that he’s sorry.” She already knew that he was sorry. It would never be enough. “He slept with my sister, Tommy.”

Hands raised out - a placation - Tommy offered, “I really wasn’t going to.”

“Wait,” her eyes narrowed at him, arms folding over her chest, “did he send you here?”

Did Oliver send Tommy, thinking there was still a chance for them? Did he want to be friends or something just as ridiculous?

Did… did he want to make it up to her? Did he think he could? How would he do that?

“ _What?_ No,” adamantly shaking his head, Tommy’s natural boyish charm made it so that she _had_ to listen to him, _damn him_ , “he wouldn’t, and I wouldn’t.”

“Good.” She nodded, turning away once more-

“It’s been 12 years, Laurel.” She froze. “12 years since we all became friends.” And for a moment, she was locked in time too. Remembering. Missing the simplicity of what they used to be to one another, when all that mattered was Oliver’s smile and her dreams. When she hadn’t known he could cheat on her. She pretended she didn’t, but she’d venture there when she was alone, when she had nothing to focus on. “There’s 12 years of history between the three of us, of memories.” And he sounded sad for each one. “We can’t just let the past _die_ like this.”

He missed it too.

More than that, he wanted her and Oliver to part amicably. To give Oliver something to smile about. _As if he deserved it_. And yet…

Everything that had ever happened between them, it _had_ to mean something in the now. They hadn’t lived through that for it all to have no meaning, she refused to think that. She’d fallen in love. He’d loved her back. His friend liked her too. She liked him. They were – all three of them – entrapped in each other. They’d always be entrapped in each other.

She’d always have Ollie’s past, even as he’d thrown it all away. She’d always be the best thing in his life. She’d seen it in his face, the other day. Regret. Care. No mattered what happened, she would always have a piece of him that other women couldn’t touch, and she deserved to have that after what he’d put her through.

Had the island reminded him of that? Would he even try to make up for what she’d lost? She no longer had a sister because-

Why did he do it? They were happy, why did he need to cheat? And it could have been any woman, it hadn’t needed to be Sara.

She had questions and no answers.

She didn’t know what to do. All she knew was that she was unsettled, and she didn’t like being unsettled.

Turning, hesitating, she looked at Tommy. Chewing on the inside of her cheek. Looking uncomfortable with his truths. Unsure.

He saw it, stepping closer. “You owe it to yourself to see if there’s anything that can be salvaged. _If_ you want there to be.” He added, smiling. “You don’t even have to stay long. Just one drink.” He took a breath and it looked odd on him. Like he was waiting for something. “See if there’s still something there.”

“Between me and Ollie?” She shook her head, eyes darting away. “There’s nothing. I don’t… I don’t want to…”

She didn’t want to… what?

“Just talk to him, Laurel.” Tommy suggested, and it was a suggestion. He knew hr well enough to know anything else wouldn’t be taken well. “I mean, you were friends before you dated, right?”

So, they should be able to talk. Put the ghost to rest.

Or maybe… get some answers. Or something. _I think_. “I’ll think about it.” She gave him, faking indifference as she elbowed shut the cabinet drawer. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.” She said, moving around him and back towards her desk.

“Say no more!” His hands clapped together, turning with her. “I have last minute party details to wrap up.” Gesturing to the two women as he neared them, he affected a look of pain. “How do you people get up so early in the morning?”

Laurel shot him another pointed look. “Goodbye Tommy.”

He grinned. Beamed. And, yeah… she wasn’t immune. “Bye.” And he actually waved ‘bye’ as he strolled out the door.

_Cute._

She heard Joanna before she saw her. “He’s got it bad.”

Sighing, she glanced up through her hair. “Joanna…” _Please_.

“I’m just saying.” Joanna was, for lack of a better word, gorgeous. Dark skinned brunette, she knew her own mind and she was just as smart, if not smarter, than Laurel. “Though I’m not sure why he’d be trying to make you talk to the ex…” she left that open ended as she sat across from her friend.

As she sent her a look of her own.

Ignoring it, Laurel clenched her jaw, took in a breath, turned towards her computer screen and started her day. There was work to be done. Justice to be made.

 _Don’t think about it_.

 

* * *

 

Outside of CNRI, Tommy winced; _yup. I’m going to hell_.

He’d wanted her to be indifferent.

 _I mean, I knew that she wouldn’t be_ … but he’d still hoped.

Her anger was very much part of the person she’d become - _a very fine figure of a person if I do say so myself_ \- and he knew that Oliver was at the root of that. The opposite of love however, wasn’t hatred. Or anger. Or passionate spite.

It was indifference.

Laurel wasn’t indifferent, not if the expression on her face was anything to go by; not by a long shot. She hated ollie… but she hated him because he’d hurt her, not because he was a horrible human being. Maybe it wasn’t love, but it was definitely something. She wanted answers.

And he’d hoped she didn’t. He’d hoped she’d smile at him and wonder. She hadn’t.

His index finger and thumb pinched the bridge of his nose. _Bad Tommy_. It hadn’t been about trying to get her to declare her undying apathy towards Ollie. He wanted the three of them to be equals. To be able to talk. To know where they stood. He needed it.

But how could he do that to Oliver?

 _Sorry buddy_. Instead, he’d found himself hoping she’d show just how much she’d moved past his best friend, whilst knowing Oliver still felt for her. After all this time. Five years. And Oliver still held a torch. _Bad, bad best friend_.

He was screwed. And he deserved punishment- not the kind he usually opted for either.

But. There was still; time. And Oliver needed a party. He’d give him one; the best party ever. _Yeah…_

But he didn’t see the figure across the street. Didn’t see a man taking pictures of the building.

Of the brunette Tommy Merlyn was in love with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is pure Olicity and a few other short povs.


End file.
